The night dragged on,
and my breath felt shallow-
the kind of air you draw
in a room where the air is so thick
it chokes you with the taste of things burnt.
We held our signs high once,
stuck them in the ground like flags
in soil we thought was ours.
But flags mean nothing
if the ground is scorched,
and hands reach up to pull it all down.
It's a haunting, worn-out song
on endless repeat-
the familiar ache of loss
even before the count is finished,
and hope frays at the seam,
unravelling stitch by stitch.
Today, silence settles heavy,
across screens, across streets,
through the cracks of half-finished conversations.
The world feels smaller,
bound by walls we thought
we’d already broken.