Consequences gather in low places,
pooling like rainwater in cracked pavement,
whispering the language of slow erosion.
They do not shout—
they seep, they settle,
they learn the weight of waiting.
A fallen word, a fractured promise,
spilling into forgotten corners,
trickling through veins of silence.
We step around them,
pretend not to notice
the tide rising at our ankles.
But still, they gather—
patient as the pull of gravity,
soft as the hush before crestfalling.
