This Is Life, My Dear

Why do you plan someone's downfall
with such careful hands,
as though the earth
has forgotten how to keep a record?

Did you forget where you are standing?

Beneath your feet
are all the footsteps you have ever made,
the prayers you buried,
the names you whispered into darkness,
the little cruelties
you thought would never grow teeth.

You build a throne from another's ruin
and call yourself safe,
but the sky has no loyalty to kings.

One day,
the same wind that carried your laughter
will learn your name differently.

The moon will turn its face.
The river will remember your reflection.
And the ground,
that patient, ancient witness,
will shift beneath you
just enough
to remind you:

You were never standing above anyone.

You were standing on life.

And life, my dear,
is a strange house.

Every door you close
opens somewhere else.
Every stone you throw
keeps falling through time.
Every shadow you cast
eventually finds its way home.

So why sharpen your knife
against another person's tomorrow
when your own is still unwritten?

Be careful where you plant your feet.

This is life, my dear.

And the earth
has a long memory.