• _libra 9w

    What is called suspended grief
    but a trickle of tears, slowly
    soaking and filling up cracks
    until an ocean grows into the pillow
    without us knowing it
    It isn't always a tidal wave
    nor a flooding
    but a slow rivulet, eating away
    at our soul until a canyon is formed
    where memories lay in tattered
    heaps of desecrated bones

    What is hope but a seed
    nestling among these ruins
    thriving despite it
    growing until this valley of death
    become Eden once again.