I was etched like a trace in a dream’s tale untold,
No echo stirred within silence’s hold.
My solitude whispered secrets I’d never known,
Not the mirror — madness had truths of its own.
I carved every moment upon my skin,
Yet time kept bleeding from deep within.
I’m a spectacle, yes, but each hue feels dry —
What bloom can deserts in blossom imply?
When I write a name, my tongue turns frost,
Words try to soothe, but something’s lost.
Even wounds stay mute, though the cry is wet,
What did we gain when our fall was set?
If the quill should tear, it becomes the script,
Each gesture hides a sentence, crypt.
Morning arrives like a shadow slipping past —
Seems I’m the one who’s hidden at last.
A reflection on silence, loss, and the unseen weight of time — where pain hides behind calm gestures, and shadows carry the stories we never tell.
Constructive thoughts and poetic impressions are most welcome.
written by Mubashirؔ.
