Despair repeats—
a speech worn thin,
a mouth grinding echoes.
We laugh at its persistence,
not because it is small,
but because we are still here.
Storm quiet.
Chairs overturned.
Papers scattered.
We gather what remains—
not to rebuild,
but to stand again
among ruins.
Hope flares sudden,
a match in the hollow dark,
a pulse that refuses silence,
a fire carried forward
in our own hands.
The road bends,
gravel biting at our shoes.
We do not know what waits,
only that each step
is already refusal—
a blaze against falling.
So we step,
out of the echo,
into another place,
where even tired feet
hammer their own truth.
We drag ourselves forward,
dust rising behind us—
proof of movement.
Even weariness drums—
a slow alarm,
a pulse that carries us
when nothing else will.
.