once the edges of things,
sharp and certain,
cutting through fog with voices
that sounded like answers.
now the light bends differently
around these dimming monuments.
eyes wait for it… the moment
when knowledge becomes rumor,
when old hands lose the grammar
of the world once built.
the ground once walked shifts
into unfamiliar syntax.
this watching offers no mercy.
no clean transition.
just the gradual rewriting of pedestals,
the way a photograph fades not all at once
but in imperceptible increments
until one day
realization arrives: the faces were never as clear
as memory insisted.
grieving what once was
while breath still hangs in the room
becomes a practice of holding two truths
like water in cupped hands,
both love and the smallness revealed,
both gratitude and grief.
peace is not acceptance.
peace is the hush when resistance
against erosion pauses
and boundaries dissolve into silt,
grain by grain,
into something less monumental
and somehow more real.