Crack

There's a crack in everything, that's true enough,  

and yes, that's how the light gets in, you see—  

but also how the damp of years escapes,  

leaks from the stones and stains the hands of time.  

What emerges isn't soul, no shining breath,  

but the slow ooze of forgotten lives, old dust,  

the residue of things we once believed—  

small fears, brittle hope, crumbling beneath weight.  

Light shines through, yes, illuminating paths,  

but cracks are cracks, not windows after all.  

We are left to patch the crumbling edges,  

hold what seeps out from overtaking the glow.