Memorial of Hope
These are the days of the broken.
The repair is out of reach.
These are the days of solitude,
Where you hope they've something to teach.
This is when promises replay in your mind,
And you pray they aren't something you're asked to leave behind.
These are the quiet days,
When the earth has tilted, and some must suffer in the slide.
These are the lonely days, when even the whisper has died.
The storm will hit, and there will be more;
The hush is begging you not to shut the door.
These are the days that echo creaking rocking chairs,
And the remembering of the yet to come exists only in dares.
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