Ten Thousand Miles of Life
Ten thousand miles of life—
and somehow, it all becomes vanity.
Lilies shrivel.
Grass turns yellow.
What once bloomed beneath the sun
slowly becomes a memory.
Death comes quickly,
without an alarm,
without knocking,
without giving the heart
time to prepare.
Then grief arrives.
Not gently.
Not slowly.
It crashes into the soul
without warning,
leaving emotions scattered
where peace once lived.
And mourning—
oh, mourning changes you.
Time does not always heal
the way people promise it will.
Sometimes time only teaches you
how to carry the wound.
Because the memories remain.
They haunt the quiet.
They return in familiar places,
in old photographs,
in voices you can almost hear.
You keep living,
but a piece of you
is forever walking backward
through the miles
of what you lost.
