Dust Motes and Forgotten Cries
The clock ticks, a hollow sound,
time that refuses to heal.
Dust motes dance in the slanted light,
each a tiny, forgotten sorrow.
The news whispers of old wounds, reopened,
a symphony of forgotten cries.
Children play, their laughter
a fragile shield against the encroaching silence.
"When yesterdays become devoid of compassion",
the present crumbles, a house of cards.
The weight of what was,
and what could have been,
presses down,
a suffocating blanket.
We search for echoes of kindness,
a whisper of empathy
in the cacophony of indifference.
But sometimes,
there is only the vast, echoing space
where hearts once beat as one.
©bfa053125
Copyright © Bernard F. Asuncion | Year Posted 2025
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