Shelter

History writes in stone,
names carved by the steady hand
of those who outlived the fire.
It remembers the crowned,
the victorious,
the ones who stood last
when the dust settled
and called it truth.
But poetry—
poetry is not loyal to survival.
It kneels in the ash,
listens beneath the silence,
gathers the syllables that never made it
to daylight.
It hums in broken tongues,
in lullabies cut short,
in letters never sent,
in the breath between a scream
and its forgetting.
Here—
no one is erased.
The fallen speak
through metaphor and marrow,
through ink that refuses
to dry into obedience.
The anonymous rise—
not as monuments,
but as echoes
stitched into lines
that refuse to end.
So hail the poets—
keepers of the uncounted,
smugglers of memory,
architects of quiet rebellions.
They build shelters
from fragile words,
and somehow
they do not collapse.
Inside,
the unheard gather—
not asking to be saved,
only
to be heard.

artbookshistorypoemspoetryfree verse

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