Questions

Written for the Writer's Cramp

In the hush that comes after the shouting,
when the dust settles on broken plans,
I sit with the shadows and wonder aloud:
When does the sun set now?
Its timing feels different,
as if even the sky is unsure
how to carry on.

The wind moves through empty streets
like a ghost searching for company,
and I ask the silence,
What if everyone disappeared?
Would the world keep spinning out of habit,
or would it pause, sensing the absence
of all our restless footsteps?

The night grows heavier,
weighted with doubts that have no names,
and the echo of a plea rises from my chest,
Who will help us after this is over?
The stars blink back, distant and undecided.

I drag my fear beside me like a stubborn suitcase,
feeling its wheels catch on every crack,
and I whisper into the dim,
How many times do I have to ask?
The question falls flat,
settling like dust on my tongue.

And finally, standing at the crossroads
of all the things we lost
and all the things we still hope for,
I lift my eyes to the dark horizon:
Where are we supposed to go now?
No answer comes,
just the soft pulse of possibility
waiting for our next step
to give it shape.

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