Lady Dra Poet Free verse

The Slow Unraveling

Little by little, the past dissolves—
not clean, not gentle—
but like candle wax slipping down the sides,
pooling into shapes we can’t quite name.
What was sacred disappears in chipped pieces,
quiet crumbs we didn’t notice losing
until our hands rise empty in the dim light.
The world moves too fast now,
rushing past the songs once hummed in warm kitchens,
past the pocketed prayers folded in trembling hands,
past the stories told only when the night felt safe.
And still, in that frail space between dusk and dark,
memory stirs—
a breath you swear you feel beside you,
even when no one is there.
It lingers in the places
where love once set down its tired weight.
A recipe whispered from a voice you almost remember.
A gesture you make without thinking.
A candle lit because snow is coming,
because someone before you always did the same.
No reasons left, just echoes—
threads time keeps pulling at
but can’t quite snap.
Yes, the old ways fade—
sometimes slowly, sometimes like a door closing too hard.
Yet we carry their remnants in the softest places:
in the chest that tightens at a familiar scent,
in the hands repeating motions taught in another life,
in the voice that trembles
when speaking of what’s gone.
The world keeps changing.
But somewhere behind the ribs,
a small ember refuses to dim—
a stubborn, pulsing warmth
that survives even the darkest years.
Tradition lives there,
in the quiet, in the bruised spaces,
in the part of us that still reaches back
even as everything else
slowly unravels.

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