The sorrow did not arrive with thunder,
it crept, a slow suffocation,
until the chest forgot how to rise,
until the veins pulsed only with silence.

It was not merely pain,
but a drowning,
each breath dragged through glass,
each thought heavier than stone.

Sleep gave no refuge,
dreams became ruins,
and waking was worse,
a return to a world stripped of color,
a place where even hope was ash.

This was sadness at its cruelest,
a weight too vast for flesh,
too sharp for memory,
a darkness so complete
it left the soul hollow,
aching, and numb all at once.