residual smoke

like fireworks that fizzle out,

we bloom loud against the dark,

convinced the sky is listening,

convinced this light is permanent.

but the night never keeps souvenirs.

we rise from soil with borrowed names,

call it purpose, call it fate,

stack our days like they won’t collapse,

repeat the same motions

until repetition feels like meaning.

everything circles back.

roots to bone,

bone to dust,

dust pretending it was never alive.

love feels infinite

until it isn’t.

empires feel solid

until they crack quietly,

one grain at a time.

we loop—

wake, want, work, wait—

polishing routines

until they shine enough

to distract us from the ending.

but even the brightest flare

knows its job is brief.

it burns, it dazzles,

then apologizes with smoke.

nothing escapes the fade.

not stars, not systems, not us.

we return to the ground we borrowed from,

complete the circle,

as if we were always just passing through



                                                    - Deia

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