In the corner of the room,
the dust motes perform a slow,
unrehearsed ballet,
drifting on the singular beam of light
that forced its way through the heavy
curtains.
There is a strange comfort
in the way the shadow of the elm
stretches across the floorboards,
elongating like a tired limb
at the end of a long day.
We spend our hours tracing
the hard edges of the visible,
measuring the weight of what we can touch.
Yet, the world built
in quiet spaces between.
The silence that follows a question.
The gap between heartbeats.
The dark that makes the candle flame
mean something more than a chemical
reaction.
We are all just architects
building monuments in the light,
while the shadows keep the secrets
of the foundation.
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