The Weight of the Days

In the dance of dawn, we rise anew,
Yet soon, the steps grow heavy, too.
The sun once kissed with golden grace,
Now dulls in skies we cannot face.

We chase the dream, we crave the spark,
But light fades slowly in the dark.
The rhythm falters, time grows still,
And hearts, once eager, lose their will.

For in the endless spin of time,
Even joy surrenders, past its prime.
The laughter thins, the silence spreads,
We grow too tired to lift our heads.

Once, we thought that life was more—
A gift, a thrill, a vibrant shore.
But tides recede, and so do we,
Lost to the weight of what must be.

We tire of love, we tire of hope,
Of chasing meaning on the slope.
The climb that seemed so worth the fight
Now leaves us breathless in its height.

Yet still, in weariness, we find
A strange release of heart and mind.
Perhaps in letting go, we see
The truth within this wearied sea—

That all things fade, as we must too,
And peace comes not from what we do,
But from the grace of standing still,
And finding rest in endless will.

For life, though weary, winds its way,
Through every dusk, and every day.
And in the end, it’s not the race,
But how we learn to rest in place.

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