2025 (The day after special elections)

Across the map, the lights came on again—

counties, cities, towns where hope had gone quiet,

now humming like power lines after the storm.

It wasn’t confetti or headlines,

it was breath—steady, defiant,

the sound of ballots sliding home.

They called them special elections,

as if democracy had been on pause,

as if this was some rehearsal.

But this was no rehearsal.

This was pulse.

This was heartbeat.

Every vote a drumbeat against the noise,

a reminder that even in exhaustion,

the people still rise,

still speak in the only language that cannot be silenced.

The color was blue, yes—

but it was also the color of persistence,

of tired hands refusing to let go of the rope.

From one coast to the next,

the country whispered and then shouted:

we are still here.

We are still choosing.

More than victories—

these were proofs of life,

lit candles in the rain,

a nation remembering itself

in the echo of a thousand small miracles called votes.