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Poem

In the stillness of a twilight hour,
Where shadows stretch and silence grows,
I call out to the fading light,
But the echo returns not, as it goes.
Beneath the boughs of ancient trees,
Whispers linger on the breeze,
Yet every word I cast in air
Is swallowed whole by the unseen seas.
I stand beside the silent brook,
Its waters murmur tales of old,
But every ripple fades away,
And the stories remain untold.
Once, the laughter danced like fire,
A symphony of joy and mirth,
But now the notes are lost in time,
A quiet ache, a heavy dearth.
I wander through the halls of memory,
Where portraits fade and colors blur,
Each face a ghost, each smile a sigh,
Yet the echo returns not, as I stir.
I reach for moments, grasping thin air,
Fingers trailing where dreams once soared,
But the chasm between us widens wide,
And the heartache feels like a sword.
In the gardens where we once would tread,
Petals fall like tears from the sky,
Each bloom a whisper of what was said,
Yet the echo returns not; it bids goodbye.
Time moves on, a relentless tide,
Washing away the footprints left,
And though I search for what remains,
The past is cloaked in a quiet theft.
So I learn to listen to the silence,
To find beauty in the void,
For though the echoes may not return,
In the stillness, I am not destroyed.
I carry forward the seeds of hope,
Plant them deep in the soil of my heart,
For every end births a new beginning,
And from the silence, I shall not part.
The echo returns not, but I remain,
A vessel of love, a keeper of light,
In the absence of sound, I hear the truth—
In the depths of the night, I find my flight.

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