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The Fifth Continuum

In one universe, despair repeats,
its speech worn thin with use.
In another, we laugh at its persistence—
not because it is small,
but because we are still here.

Storm quiet.
Chairs overturned.
Papers scattered.
We gather what remains—
not to restore the old order,
but to prove we can stand again
among the ruins of yesterday.

Hope walks beside us,
quiet as breath,
stubborn as dust,
yet sudden as a match
in the hollow dark—
a pulse that refuses silence,
a fire carried forward
in our own hands.

But where does meaning live—
in the hand that writes,
or in the eye that reads?
This poem is a mirror,
and each face that leans toward it
sees a different truth.

The road bends out of sight,
its gravel biting at our shoes.
We do not know what waits ahead,
only that each step
is already refusal—
a blaze against falling,
a rhythm against stillness.

So, we step,
out of the echo,
into another place,
where even tired feet
make their own truth.

Our bodies drag,
but the dust they raise
is proof of movement.
Even weariness has a rhythm,
like roots pushing through stone,
carrying us forward
when nothing else will.

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