By
The Poetic Pulse
First, it breaks like thunder,
loud and full of fear,
Each shard is a sharp reminder
of everything once dear:
Then comes the quieter breaking,
a whisper in the soul,
a slow and steady crumble
that never feels quite whole.
And maybe in that silence,
when pain has lost its name_
we call it moving forward,
but it’s never quite the same.
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