Memories, like dust,
settle into silence.
Talking into the small hours,
unraveling threads of old hurts,
words spilling like moonlight
over worn paths, unsure steps.
We forget why the clock ticks.
Blandishments curl into the air,
sweet as syrup, sharp as shame,
describing futures we can’t quite imagine.
They tempt our hand to grasp at
things that are better left behind.
The less we desire, the clearer
the constellations appear,
their cold light provides a map
for navigating the sacred, quiet spaces
we must learn to walk alone.
Talking into the small hours,
we find the courage to release,
to rectify, to let blandishments dissolve
like mist in the morning’s truth,
and step, completely reborn,
into the weightless dawn.
~Eric Vance Walton~
(Gif created by Grok.)
