5d
Let's make The Story:
Grief didn't scream here,
but smoulders like an old fire.
Let's make The Story:
what remained was a shape?
emotionally or regrettably—
whatever, the truth was escape?
Let's make The Story:
as though the weight was not of flesh,
but the memory—fragile and unfinished ash.
#thought
Grief didn't scream here,
but smoulders like an old fire.
Let's make The Story:
what remained was a shape?
emotionally or regrettably—
whatever, the truth was escape?
Let's make The Story:
as though the weight was not of flesh,
but the memory—fragile and unfinished ash.
#thought
Some called it death. Others, a mistake. But the silence insisted it was neither. It was simply a moment too surreal to be real—an event so clean, it almost looked like fiction. And in the end, the narrative settled: not a tragedy, not a reckoning—just a bad dream no one could quite wake from.
But dreams, even the awful ones, leave residue. And the story—
the one no one wanted to tell—
was just beginning.
But dreams, even the awful ones, leave residue. And the story—
the one no one wanted to tell—
was just beginning.
