There is a silence that swallows even the stars,
a hush that gnaws at the marrow,
where prayers turn to dust in the mouth
before they ever touch God’s ear.
I have lived there.
In the dim, stale air
where the clock ticks not to mark time,
but to carve it away from you,
piece by bleeding piece.
The faces I loved became shadows
and the shadows became heavier than the bodies
that once held them.
I have carried them all
until my hands ached with ghosts.
And still,
the world dares to bloom in spring,
mocking my frostbitten chest,
while my heart beats like a caged bird
too tired to sing,
too stubborn to die.
I am not afraid of the end.
Only of the moments before it,
when my soul will have to look at itself
and wonder why it still chose to stay
after everything it lost.
Aug 8, 2025
Aug 8, 2025 at 8:22 PM UTC
There is a silence that swallows even the stars,
a hush that gnaws at the marrow,
where prayers turn to dust in the mouth
before they ever touch God’s ear.
I have lived there.
In the dim, stale air
where the clock ticks not to mark time,
but to carve it away from you,
piece by bleeding piece.
The faces I loved became shadows
and the shadows became heavier than the bodies
that once held them.
I have carried them all
until my hands ached with ghosts.
And still,
the world dares to bloom in spring,
mocking my frostbitten chest,
while my heart beats like a caged bird
too tired to sing,
too stubborn to die.
I am not afraid of the end.
Only of the moments before it,
when my soul will have to look at itself
and wonder why it still chose to stay
after everything it lost.
Request permission to use this poem