The Sound Of Nothing
The silence here is not of peace—
It hums like blood beneath the skin,
A hollow hush that will not cease,
A quiet carved from what has been.
No birds, no breeze. Just broken ground,
And boots that whisper through the dust.
Even echoes fear this sound,
Where dreams break and memories rust.
I used to hear the laughter loud,
My brother's voice, a cigarette spark—
Now silence wears a heavy shroud
And wraps the camp when it turns dark.
It tastes like ash, this voiceless night,
Like letters burnt and prayers gone still.
The stars don't speak. They watch in spite,
And silence marches, cold and shrill.
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