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.
.
-
Author:
crypticbard (Pseudonym) (
Offline) - Published: October 3rd, 2025 05:31
- Comment from author about the poem: …a bit racier than its counterpart “parallel universe of truth”
- Category: Unclassified
- Views: 8
- Users favorite of this poem: Tristan Robert Lange
Offline)
Comments3
I can not help it my friend, I know that it bears a metaphor but its images too vivid remind me of going through hurricanes where debris is scattered, living in the dark for weeks without power, pushing onward exhausted, to clean what is left, dirty and tired but going on none the less driven by mere mechanical movement.
Very nicely written Cryptic
Haha, racy or not, Rik…you’ve nailed it. This burns with survival and truth, every step a refusal. Always grateful for your words, my friend. 🌹🖤🙏🕯️🐦⬛
Increasing attempts to beat into submission by the rogue elements fire and water.... no choice but to move forward - the resultant fatigue well covered here, Rik. (That's the way I see it anyway)
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