The Silence Between the Stars
There are things the soul asks
that the mouth cannot carry,
not because they hurt,
but because they were born before pain
and before the first word God ever dared to whisper.
I came into the world
under a sky that didn’t break,
it just opened.
Like a crack in the wall of a church
where light seeps in
and forgets why.
Time doesn’t move in me.
It kneels.
It walks slow, without shoes,
pressing itself into the blood
like an old psalm written
by someone who forgot the ending.
One night,
I looked at the shape of my own shadow
and asked,
“Who imagined me like this?”
It didn’t speak.
It just stood there,
the way mothers do
when the child they lost still has a name.
This place,
it isn’t home.
It’s a question
with no windows,
just mirrors that lie gently,
in the voice of someone
you almost remember.
God’s not hiding.
He’s just quiet.
He’s the breath
between the last beat of a heart
and the first thing you’d undo
if you could.
He’s the whisper left
in the bones of tired saints
who forgot the taste of heaven
but still light a candle
just in case.
And me…
I walk,
barefoot and burnt,
through whatever’s left of truth
when names fall off it.
Because I’ve learned:
You don’t need to know.
You just need to stay.
Stay quiet
where the silence
won’t leave.
Copyright © Florin Lacatus | Year Posted 2025
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