The loneliest
My feet were heavy, so was my soul, Yet still I walk—no rest, no goal. A doorway carved from shadows called, Not home, not hell—just where I'd fall.
I am the end they never seek, A shadow brushed against the weak. They curse my name with every breath, As if I begged to bear their grief.
No voice has called me out of love, No warmth, no hand, no sky above. I never felt what life could give— I do not die, I do not live.
They fear my step, yet beg me near, When pain is loud, or death is clear. I don't decide. I don't demand. I simply reach—a silent hand.
The battlefields, the noose, the bed— These are the places I'm quietly led. Where sorrow sings and time stands still, And dying dreams the air I fill.
Yet I am blamed, and I am burned, As though it's joy for which I yearned. But truth is—I have always been The loneliest thing they've ever seen.
No cradle rocked me into sleep, No soul to hold, no love to keep. Only the dead know when I come— And by then, even they feel numb.
My feet were heavy, so was my soul, Yet still I walk—no rest, no goal. A doorway carved from shadows called, Not home, not hell—just where I'd fall.
Still, I walk. I always will. Not god, not monster—but something still. A name unspoken, eyes unseen— Forever caught in what has been.
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