The architecture of peace, a blueprint sketched on still water, a structure built not of brick and mortar, but of quiet breath. ( Of the dust) It begins within, the cluttered attic of the mind, where forgotten boxes pile high, ( Attend to what's stopping you) dust motes dancing in stray beams of light, memories tangled like old string. Can it finally be swept clean? The ghosts of yesterday’s arguments, the discarded blueprints of failed plans, the heavy trunks labeled "What If," needing no more storage. To be dusted To sweep is to choose stillness, to let the broom of awareness gather the debris, not to destroy, but to clarify. And when the what ifs show again, worn smooth by the passage of thought, then, perhaps, (it's again wasten time ) allowing to trace patterns. Not the frantic scribbles of panic, nor the rigid lines of forced order, Thinking to myself One less ,one less ,one less one less ) Be not to worry ,we here the ebb and flow of acceptance. The architecture of peace, us a blueprint sketched on still water, This isn't the way by the way of elimination Insulated to myself to be these individuals in my way to be then I must of couldn't So why do we for the inconsideration A real low huh name that you claim Getting credit for animated fame This here a structure built not of brick and mortar, but of quiet breath. ( Now dusted) Mornings arrive, sharp and clean, a fresh sheet of paper waiting. But mornings, even the golden ones spilling over the sill, are not enough for y'all. Not enough to drown out the hum, the low-frequency thrum of what is known, what is always understood, not enough for y'all to escape the aura of ignorance. It clings, a familiar perfume, easier to wear than the sharp clarity of truth. The architecture of peace, a blueprint sketched on still water, a structure built not of brick and mortar, but of quiet breath. Do it to myself, this comfortable blindness, this carefully constructed haze. Lie to you, the easy untruth that smooths the edges of the day. Lie to me, believing the performance. Lie to us, agreeing in silence that this fragile truce is real. They knew. The knowing was always there, a shared secret whispered in the spaces between words. They knew we can't believe not fully, not when the attic still groans under the weight of what we refuse to see. We build our peace on shifting sand, a beautiful façade hiding the dust. We trace patterns in the daylight, while the true structure remains shadowed, unclean, waiting for the deeper sweep. The architecture of peace, a blueprint sketched on still water, a structure built not of brick and mortar, but of quiet breath. trace patterns dusted a beautiful façade hiding the dust. We trace patterns (trace patterns dusted) a beautiful façade hiding the dust. We trace patterns Dust to silience

Why am I here