The Roughness of Slate

I tripped over slate on a path overgrown,

a jagged reminder, sharp edges alive.

It lingered in my palm, heavy as stone,

a metaphor for thoughts that struggle to thrive.

Each scratch and mark tells a tale of its own,

a history written in layers of gray,

like memories unyielding, hard as bone,

a question of what will wash easily away.

I hold it as a token of things left unsaid,

an unfinished business that waits in the dark.

In its roughness, I find all the dreams that I dread,

a compass of silence, a flame to the spark.