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Poem

Now I understand why ghosts rise from the past, shimmering shadows and whispers,
For the past never truly dies; it just hides in dark, deep corners,
Until silence can no longer last and echoes begin to sing again,
It’s in the mirror, in the voice that sounds like mine, in that endlessly repeated "I’m fine."
All the things I've left behind have not disappeared but wait silently,
They sit in the back row of every right I try to correct, like old secrets,
They don't ask for permission, just claim their place, leaving their mark on my tired soul,
And the more you ignore it, the more it steals from your inner grace, like a shadow.
Regrets are heavy, and "what if" becomes a chain pulling strongly backward,
The past doesn’t leave; it just pulls you back into its web of memories and unspoken desires,
Now I understand that ghosts don’t haunt; they just gently remind in silence,
And the past will never let you forget what you left behind, like an unfulfilled dream.
In every whisper of the wind and every breath of night, I feel the echoes dancing,
The past is an endless poem singing my story, a memory that never fades,
Like a flame flickering secretly in the depths of my heart, transforming into light,
And I realize that everything that slipped through my fingers still breathes, like a star in the eternal night.

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