Marks of Remembrance

Sitting with charcoal, the dust on my hands,

a soft, gritty echo of dreams in the sands.

With each stroke I make, I’m lost in the past,

faded sketches of shadows that never quite last.

I smear the black lines, unsteady and bold,

shapes of forgotten stories begin to unfold.

This charcoal speaks softly, like whispers in night,

a canvas of memory, of darkness and light.

Though the marks might not linger, they carry a weight,

reminders of artistry, of love and of fate.

And with every breath, I cradle the ache,

a symphony silent that won’t let me break.