In Vain

The days blur into one long ache,
Soft edges worn thin
By the weight of repetition.
Eat, sleep, work —
Repeat.
And for what?

Hope lingers in the hollow spaces,
A faint pulse beneath my ribs,
A whisper of something
I can’t name.
It presses into me,
Heavy as stone,
Fragile as smoke.

I search for meaning
In the rustle of leaves,
In the last light bleeding through the trees,
In the quiet ache of the night.

I’ve held onto this for so long
It’s in my bones
Threaded into the marrow —
Is it keeping me alive
Or weighing me down?

What if it’s all in vain?
What if this cycle —
This slow erosion of soul and skin —
Is all there is?

What if hope is just
Another kind of madness,
A thin veil stretched over nothing?

And yet,
Even as day turns to night,
Even as the light fades to darkness —
Hope calls still.
A stubborn pulse from beneath the emptiness,
Quiet, steady,
Unwilling to surrender.

Is it faith?
Or simply the refusal to let go?
A habit formed in silence,
A quiet pull toward nothing —
Grasping at what never takes shape.

Am I a fool?
It’s so heavy,
But it's carried —
Not by choice, but by need.
Disconnected, I drift through the quiet pull,
Letting go of what never stayed,
Feeling the echo of what’s gone,
Yearning for something that may never come.