When the Soul is Lost
In the hollow hours before dawn,
when shadows stretch like grasping hands,
I search through rooms I’ve always known
for something I can’t understand.
The mirror holds a stranger’s face,
familiar yet somehow untrue—
eyes that once held fire and grace
now stare back empty, cold, and blue.
I walk through days like sleepwalking,
my footsteps echo on the ground,
the world around me keeps on talking
but I can’t hear a single sound.
Where did it go, that spark within?
That light that made the darkness flee?
Was it lost to doubt or sin,
or did it simply tire of me?
I trace the paths I used to know,
through gardens where I once found peace,
but every flower seems to bow
as if to mourn what won’t release.
The books speak words I cannot feel,
the music plays but doesn’t sing,
and nothing left feels wholly real—
I am the shell of everything.
Yet in the deepest, darkest night,
when hope seems just a fading dream,
sometimes I glimpse a distant light,
a whisper of what I have been.
Perhaps the soul is never lost,
just buried beneath the weight of days,
and though the journey bears a cost,
it waits for us in hidden ways.
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