The tectonic tremor, not of crust, but of spirit,
a fault line fracturing the smooth facade of days.
Sudden, the seismic shift, a stutter in the rhythm,
cobalt cracks bloom across the porcelain certainty.
Dust motes, once dancing in sunbeams, now choke the throat,
a gritty veil over the shattered mosaic of "always."
The ground, once firm, a liquid sway,
a serpentine...
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