#shoaibshawonpoetry
There is nothing to ask of anyone,
nothing left to claim.
I sift through the fragments of memory;
whatever I find, I leave behind in silence.
Around the edge of the world
I draw a circle of emptiness,
lock myself within it,
and watch all other voids unfold.
I wonder—
are you emptiness,
or am I?
If not, then perhaps
every soul is nothing but empty.
Sep 14, 2025
Sep 14, 2025 at 2:45 AM UTC
I remember a day—
still and silver as morning light,
when my loneliness felt almost sweet,
a quiet refuge where I could lose myself in you.
At our parting you swore,
“This time, I will keep my word.”
You bound that vow by the wings of birds,
as if the open sky itself would bear witness
to the truth of your promise.
But I know—
you have spoken such words before:
to flowers, to birds,
to the old banyan that has stood a hundred years,
to the half-read novel gathering dust on your shelf.
And now I understand—
you are one who can promise anyone,
perhaps even love itself.
Tell me then,
in the end, whose promise did you truly keep?
Did you hold to it, or let it slip away,
just another small thing, too light to matter?
Does the breaking of words never trouble your mind?
If not, how can a person walk so freely through the days,
while the world grows heavy beneath the weight
of what you left unkept?
And still—
I remember the day you promised the flowers,
you promised the birds.
I wonder—did you find the road of no return,
or did you simply forget?
For you gave so many promises,
but not a single one was ever kept.
Sep 14, 2025
Sep 14, 2025 at 2:34 AM UTC