A whisper starts, a doubt takes hold,
Are feelings gone, a story told?
Success and loss, a vibrant hue,
Yet senses fade, what once felt true.
The taste of joy, the sting of pain,
Recalled like sun, or falling rain.
But touch is lost, a phantom limb,
Where feeling danced, now shadows dim.
Not blankness born of empty days,
But absence deep, in hollow ways.
Joy, grief, and love, mere words they seem,
A barren plain, a broken dream.
The memory aches, a cruelest jest,
Of colors seen, now put to test.
A void expands, a chilling fear,
The vibrant soul, no longer near.
Yet hope remains, a fragile thread,
To reignite, what lies as dead.
Reflection's path, a winding way,
To find the spark, that slipped away.
A lonely fight, a hidden plea,
How to explain, what others see?
Empathy's ghost, a hollow sound,
In silent depths, where truth is bound.
A fleeting warmth, a sudden rage,
A glimpse of life, upon the stage.
Like desert rain, a moment brief,
Then thirst returns, beyond belief.
But whispers stay, a fragile sign,
That brokenness, is not divine.
No charted course, no guiding hand,
Just memory's compass, in this land.
Though limbo's fear, may ever loom,
A single ember, breaks the gloom.
A breath of hope, a whispered prayer,
To fan the flames, and find what's there.
The "phantom limb" metaphor: It's a perfect analogy for the way we can still feel the echoes of emotions that are no longer present.
