It starts as a whisper, a storm in your skin,
a pressure so loud, it echoes within.
Not for attention. Not for the show.
It’s the scream you can't let anyone know.
It's the moment you drown, desperate to feel,
when numbness becomes the loudest appeal.
They say, “Just talk,” but the words retreat -
how do you explain pain that doesn’t speak?
You cover the marks, pull down the sleeve,
play the part that others believe.
But it’s never about wanting to die -
it’s about needing something to quiet the cry.
And still, you survive. Again. Again.
You wake and ache but try to remain.
Because somewhere deep beneath that ache,
you know there's more than what pain can take.
So here’s what’s true, even if it’s small:
You are not your scars. You are not your fall.
You are the breath that followed the burn,
the strength in choosing each twist and turn.
Let your voice crack, let the silence break -
you’re allowed to need, to bend, to shake.
And if the darkness clings tonight,
let this poem hold the light
The Quiet Sovereign
by Christopher Haywood
2 October 2026
A thunderous speech can fill the space,
And shake the rafters, loud and proud,
Directing every turned-up face,
To sway the court and move the crowd.
It claims the air, it claims the hall,
With ringing words that heavily fall—
A passing wave that fills it all,
Then fades into a hollow sigh.
Yet when the bluster breaks away,
And heavy stillness settles in,
A deeper presence comes to stay,
Beneath the quiet, past the din.
For noise can rule the physical space,
And capture every wandering eye,
But silence meets you face to face,
Where no conviction fits a lie.
The loud voice commands the room;
The clear silence commands the mind.
Coffee or tea?
Eggs or French toast?
“I’m not sure honey,
Whatever you want most.”
Strawberries or melon?
A fork or spoon?
“I’m not sure honey,
But I’d like to eat before noon.”
Windows up or curtains drawn?
Go back to bed or start the day?
“I’m not sure love,
You can decide either way.”
Music playing or keep it quiet?
Pajamas or get dressed?
“I’m not sure love,
Whatever you think is best.”
Walk around the garden?
Or sit inside for a while?
“I’m not sure honey,
I just want to see you smile.”
Slow mornings, sleepy eyes
Together curled in a ball
I’m not sure honey,
I think I want it all
Sun shining through the window
Flowers in full bloom
I’m not sure love,
But it’s always with you
No plans, no hurry
No reason to leave
I’m not sure love
But this is enough for me
Our world is full of indecision
There are too many voices in each ear
Blue lights overshadowing our vision
More overstimulation every year
Far too many choices to consider
Self help books, influencers, and podcasts
My peace of mind to the highest bidder
One after another, it never lasts
With attention spans to weak to hold on
Mental exhaustion and burnout is real
Depression and anxiety will spawn
And a suicidal fate we will seal
True inner peace comes from a quiet soul
So less distractions will make our hearts whole
Lanterns bleed on snow
Frost paints the window
lace
Your breath hangs like
smoke
Crimson scarf, trembling
hands
Night hums a low prayer
Stars undress into dawn
There is a quiet corner
for the wandering~
a place that gathers itself
just beyond the usual path.
Light settles there differently,
not bright, not dim,
just enough to soften the edges
of whatever arrives.
A single chair of shadow,
a small drift of air
that carries no urgency,
only the faint scent
of something unhurried.
Here, even thoughts
walk more slowly,
as if the ground beneath them
has learned to hold its breath.
Nothing calls you forward.
Nothing pulls you back.
It is simply a place
that waits without expectation~
a still pocket of the world
where the wandering
can rest without explanation.
the lavender lake
cradles a small paper boat
beneath moonlit reeds.
some journeys ask for no oars,
only faith in the current.
Night settles in a pale blue hush,
and the glass seed in my palm
carries a faint shimmer
as if remembering its own beginning.
Ice loosens along the edges of things~
a quiet alchemy I feel in my ribs.
I hold the seed to the light,
and something inside it softens.
I open my hand,
and the seed brightens just enough
to suggest a direction.
Not a command~
just a small, soft defiance
against the cold.
the maple
l o o s e n s its amber hush,
leaves drifting
in slow, deliberate strokes
around the bench
she sits
in her denim skirt
and beige sweater,
mittens cupping
the briskness
of the watercolor air
a small stack
of pale pumpkins
rests beside her~
soft autumn accents
in the muted scene
before her,
a watering can waits,
and from its spout
a rabble of butterflies
rises,
tiny brush marks
of wandering color
she gazes
to her left,
comfortable
in the silent drift
of leaves and wings~
perhaps letting her thoughts
l o o s e n
the way the season
does
rain
books
silence
between pages
the quiet weather
the mind hears its own thoughts falling
Her haven wasn’t grand or wide;
no sweeping place to run or hide.
It lived in smaller things she kept~
a teacup where the morning slept,
a folded napkin, soft with wear,
a breath she balanced in the air.
She found her refuge in the pause
between two sentences—because
that quiet space, so slight, so thin,
let calm collect and settle in.
A spoon against a porcelain rim
became a steadying hymn for her,
a sound that asked her heart to stay
a moment more before the day.
Her haven wasn’t built to last
or hold the weight of shadows cast.
It simply offered gentle ground,
grace in tiny places she had found~
the ones that ask for nothing new,
yet give her back a clearer view.
No grand escape, no sweeping plan~
just smallness doing what it can.
A haven shaped by quiet art,
no larger than a beating heart.
The radio towers died at noon, the screens went blank and cold,
And static ceased to whisper of the empires bought and sold.
Down in the deep concrete redoubts, where millions gasped for air,
The ordinary citizens were stripped of their despair.
But in its place came something vast, a terrible, clean weight—
The absolute, unyielding hush that settled at the gate.
For thirty days no leader spoke, no siren pierced the dark,
The automated generators left a silent spark.
Men stared into their calloused hands, unable to recall
The frantic noise that used to drive their backs against the wall.
The silence was a physical thing, a pressure in the ear,
That forced the crowded bunker-rooms to face their oldest fear.
Yet by the third long, wordless week, the madness turned to rest,
As heartbeat matched to heartbeat in the quiet of the chest.
They learned to read the shifts of light, the breathing of the crowd,
And found a stranger, softer tongue where nothing was allowed.
Before the silver wood reached down to claim the planet's lease,
The bunker citizens survived the suffocating peace.
You loved...
You loved the silence and the empty screen.
You loved a guy, enough to wait on him for weeks.
Waiting for a simple message
to ease the longing your aching heart feels.
Waiting for “I love you”
to quiet your fears.
And it was hard...
hard not to break beneath your thoughts.
So, when your heart would ache,
you'd hide.
Hide behind the memories
of words you only once read.
Hide behind the hope
that all of it was soon to end.
And you'd wait...
for the moment you'd be found,
by the one
who had your heart in his hands.
My heart waits again,
Hands sweating with familiarity,
When peace is present... What's next?
Wondering and knowing of readiness,
Shifts knocking on the door,
Will I hold my own hand... Be my own friend?
Of course I'm capable,
Bending realities at will,
Will I finally fathom it never ends?
Wondering if I'll embrace it,
Catching myself before I leave my lane,
Will I again be shocked by coming pain?
Hoping I will balance it now,
The mind and the fire inside,
I'll speak to myself in a week, again.
A quiet period,
Noticing myself again,
A new is coming.
Another cycle completed,
Doors closed quietly,
Monsters left behind.
Hands slipping silently,
Goodbyes necessary,
A young bird again gains flight.
A small clearing,
Understanding my fractals,
Which part of me is next?
A quiet period,
Challenges festering...
A badge of honour on my chest.
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