Yesterday's ink, already gray
On paper folded for the bin.
A bold headline, a fractured face—
A brief moment where the world was thin.
We are all part of the unwritten—
The story still becoming.
Just a single word from a long sentence,
A future we are all summing.
But the day kept breathing on,
the pages turned, the hours spun.
That urgent, static truth
Is just a drop from the ocean's run.
A new page waits for today's sun,
The past a whisper, not a shout.
What's next is not yet done,
But a new truth is being written out.
