Dan Enache | + Follow Poet |
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The absence of hope nests upon my shoulders like epaulettes of desolation

The absence of hope nests upon my shoulders like epaulettes of desolation,
with its poisonous warmth that has burned my skin to the bone, leaving purple scars,
crimson cuts from endless waiting in the antechamber of miracles that never come,
and yet it's strange how hope extends its hands with free bandages, like a merciful lady.
Despair no longer frightens me as it once did when I was a child hiding under blankets,
it has become the new currency of my creativity, with which I pay for poems and dreams,
transforming ruins into metaphors that shine like the jewels of fallen kings,
molding wounds into colored crayons with which to paint strength on the walls of my soul.
Neither despair nor hope feel like they belong to me in this life anymore,
as if I had inherited someone else's emotions, like clothes worn by strangers,
so now I sit in the laboratory of my heart and repair sadness into fine humor,
transforming pain into jokes that make the world laugh instead of cry.
I am an alchemist of feelings, a craftsman who pours the lead of suffering into gold,
who learns to make from each blow of fate a line of verse that heals,
from each disappointment a story that makes others feel less alone,
from each sleepless night a melody that soothes those who cannot sleep.
In the workshop of my silence, where only my shadow and I work like two artisans,
I take the broken pieces of hope and glue them with laughter until they become mosaics,
I take the threads of despair and weave them into stories that warm frozen hearts,
because I have learned that the greatest art is to make beautiful what hurts.
Perhaps I no longer know which emotions are mine and which belong to the world around me,
perhaps I have become a mirror that reflects others' pain and transforms it into light,
perhaps my mission on this earth is to be the translator of suffering into joy,
to be the bridge between tears and laughter, between despair and hope reborn from its own ashes.
And so I sit, with the epaulettes of hope's absence gleaming on my battle-weary shoulders,
with hands full of bandages that I offer to those who need to heal their wounds,
transforming each day into an alchemy laboratory where the miracle is not hope,
but the ability to make light from darkness and from silence a symphony of understanding.

Copyright © Dan Enache | Year Posted 2025

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