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Poem
For ten long years, I left no trace—
No words, no cries, no names to blame.
But now the silence stirs again,
And finds its shape beneath the flame.

They whispered truths that weren’t mine,
And carved in air what never was.
Not once they knocked, nor saw within—
They spoke in masks, without a pause.

Their eyes were fog, their voices sharp,
Their stories sewn in secondhand thread.
But shadows fear the quiet mind—
And I was never truly dead.

The ink returns, though not to prove,
Nor to defend what can’t be touched.
It moves like smoke through hollow halls,
To speak where words once cost too much.

A garden grew where none looked down,
Roots curled through stone in sacred hush.
While others sowed in shallow ground,
I bloomed in silence, slow and lush.

Let them wonder what I knew,
Let them question what I’ve kept.
Some truths were not for open air—
Some justice moves while others slept.

I need no echo, no applause.
My light is not for them to name.
I rise not loud, but unafraid—
From silence.... beneath the flame.

In quiet corners, shadows bend,
Where whispered doubts refuse to end.
But in the dark, a spark ignites,
A flame that dances through the nights.

No sudden blaze, no roaring sound,
But steady warmth that knows no bound.
It weaves through cracks and broken walls,
A silent song that softly calls.

The world may seek to clip the wings
Of those who hold their hidden things,
Yet strength is forged in silent fire—
A slow, enduring, deep desire.

And though they cast their hollow lies,
I carry truths that never die.
Not bound by loud, transient fame,
But by the silence, beneath the flame.

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Author’s Note

Some stories are never shouted—they live between silences, tucked into the corners of memory, waiting for a quiet hand to write them down. This poem is not a confession, nor a cry for justice. It is a return. A whisper that survived the fire. A voice that was never lost—only watching, listening, becoming. Let those who need to understand, feel it between the lines.
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