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