This too shall pass, they say,
like a whisper dissolving into the wind,
like an ocean swallowing the footprints left too close to the tide.
They speak of sorrow as a fleeting storm,
as if rain does not leave behind flooded streets,
as if lightning does not leave scars in the bark of trees.
But what of joy?
What of the golden hum in my ribs,
the quiet mornings where sunlight drapes itself across my skin
like a lover who has nowhere else to be?
What of the laughter that shakes the marrow,
the love that lingers on my tongue
like honey refusing to be forgotten?
Even this, they say,
even this shall pass.
And so, I hold my happiness like sand,
pressing my fingers together
as if I can convince it to stay.
As if I am anything but flesh and bone,
as if my hands are anything but sieves
made for losing things.
Yet sadness—
sadness does not pass.
It settles in the hollows,
builds a home in the corners of my chest,
leaves the door open just wide enough
for the draft to creep in.
It is the echo that remains
long after the music stops.
It is the shadow that lingers
even after the candle has burned down to nothing.
If all things must pass,
then why does sorrow linger
like the aftertaste of something bitter?
Why does grief weave itself into the fabric of my being,
while joy is a thread that unravels
with every passing season?
If this too shall pass,
then let it take all of me.
Let it take my joy, my sorrow, my name,
let it take the breath from my lungs
until I am nothing but the space between moments,
the silence after the storm.
Or let me stay.
Let me be something permanent,
something that does not have to pass.
Let me be the wave that never retreats,
the flame that does not flicker out.
Let me be—
just once—
something that lasts.
or
They say
This too shall pass,
as if sorrow were a season,
as if anguish could wilt
like petals bruised by rain—
a temporary pain,
brief, whispering,
fading
into silence.
Yet my bones know different.
They ache with truths unspoken:
Happiness, too, bleeds away.
Joy slips quietly
through fingers
that tremble
with the knowing—
each smile
a brief visitor,
a fleeting guest
who leaves without goodbye.
When I stand
on the mountain of my laughter,
the summit shimmers
like a dream—
beautiful, impermanent,
haunted by the echo
that whispers softly
into moments of bliss:
this too,
this too
shall pass.
Yet sadness—
Sadness sinks deep,
carves rivers through stone,
roots itself like ancient trees,
silent, solemn,
unmoved
by seasons
or mantras
or prayers whispered
in fading twilight.
Grief remembers
what joy forgets—
that passing is a truth
sharp enough
to carve into the marrow,
and deep enough
to linger,
a quiet, lasting ache.
This too shall pass,
but sorrow stays
in shadows cast
by fleeting sun.
