The Grace of Lost

The path I knew is overgrown, Its signs have slipped from view. The stars I charted once have flown— The sky feels false and blue. No echoes answer. Even my shadow forgets what shape I used to grab. I speak, but the world unlearns my voice. The compass spins in trembled hands, Its needle blind with fear. No flame responds to my commands— The cold is drawing near. I imagined footprints in dust but woke to sharp glass underfoot. Everything I once reached for has stepped beyond remembering. Yet still I walk, though none remain To mark or mend the cost. For in the aching, quiet rain, I find the grace of lost.