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Best Poems Written by Vohn Redulla

Below are the all-time best Vohn Redulla poems as chosen by PoetrySoup members

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In the Cradle

Forged in the cradle of crumbling stone,
The river murmured like an elder's song, 
A silver thread through earth’s old bones,
Unraveling what never should belong.

Like lightning shaped in liquid skin,
It laced through logs and shattered pride,
No war was waged against the din, 
Just gentle strength that slipped beside.

Over time, I’ve clung to rigid dreams,
Iron branches in a storm’s domain;
But rivers teach what silence means, 
That bending doesn't mean you're slain.

Wounds I wore like rusted chains
Became smooth pebbles in its tide;
The river wore them down with rain
Until they shimmered, purified.

Even stars reflected in its face
Seemed less fixed than I had thought;
The current showed a softer grace, 
To lose control is not to rot.

Roots now sprout where rage once grew,
Fed by waters I once feared.
And in that flow, I saw what’s true—
Resilience is what I've steered.

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Days I Let Drift

I wore my youth like shoes too loose to feel,
Each step unsure, yet never dared to run.
My heart was clenched, a rusting, idle wheel,
While days dissolved beneath the quiet sun.

I was the empty desk in every room,
A chair unclaimed in stories being told.
A lantern hung but never lit the gloom,
Too scared to burn, too comfortable in cold.

My hands could’ve built gardens in the dust,
Planted hope where hunger cracked the land.
But I let time collect a skin of rust,
A clock asleep inside a hollow hand.

I see now how my silence wore a face,
How every shrug became a turning cheek.
I watched my world fall slowly out of place,
And never found the strength to rise and speak.

My voice, a violin without its strings,
Could’ve been music in a darker room.
My arms, not folded, could’ve lifted things,
Yet curled instead like roots that chose the tomb.

The mirror weeps for all I might have done,
A shattered frame of versions never known.
Each shard a chance I buried with the sun,
Each breath a debt I never paid or owned.

Still, I remain—though fractured, still alive,
The ashes hum, and embers call my name.
Let me be soil where better seeds survive,
And not a ghost who only dreamed of flame.

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When the Night is Soft

When the night is soft and shadows sigh,
I gather pieces of who I've been,
Underneath a silver-breathing sky—
The broken heart, the fractured skin.

I’ve worn the weight of wordless ache,
A cloak of silence stitched by stars,
Still I rise, though pathways break,
Barefoot tracing memory’s scars.

The moon bends low with lantern light,
A silent guide for those who roam,
It whispers softly through the night:
You are not lost. You’re simply home.

Though darkness clings and sorrow hums,
A quiet bloom of hope appears,
It roots itself where heartbreak drums, 
A fragile pulse beyond the tears.

I am not whole, yet still I move,
Each step a tender, whispered prayer,
A testament that I’ll improve—
That dawn awaits beyond despair.

The dawn, she paints with golden breath,
A canvas born from darkest hue,
Reminding me that even death
Can birth beginnings, fresh and new.

So softly now, I rise again,
With hands reborn from ash and dust,
A heart once marred begins to mend—
In morning’s light, in quiet trust.

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Conversations with a Dying Star

I spoke tonight to a dying star,
A flicker frail in endless skies.
It burned with all it ever was,
A lantern trembling as it dies.

I spoke to fire that once was flame,
To ancient light now burning thin.
I spoke to hours that bore no name,
To distant worlds I’ll never win.

I asked it how it kept its glow,
I asked it why it shone so bright.
I asked it what it means to go,
To fade into the velvet night.

It whispered through the silver air,
It whispered with a voice of gold.
It whispered though it was not there,
It whispered stories never told.

It said to burn until you break,
It said to shine despite the fall.
It said to give more than you take,
To risk the heart, to give it all.

I watched it flicker, soft and far,
I watched it vanish without sound.
I watched the dark replace the star,
Yet somehow light still lingered round.

And now I burn because it burned,
And now I shine because it shone.
And now I rise though I have learned
That even dying stars live on.

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The Things I Never Buried

I never buried certain names,
They lingered like a scent in air.
I whispered them through window panes
And found them waiting everywhere.

I never buried childhood roads—
The ones I walked with bleeding knees.
They live inside the softest odes
And bloom like ghosts among the trees.

I never buried what she said
The night the silence broke our bed.
Her voice still echoes in my head,
Unwritten prayers the night once read.

I never buried shoes I wore
When running from a younger pain.
They sit beside my closet door,
Still damp from unforgotten rain.

I never buried notes I wrote
And never dared to send or burn.
Each line a stone that tried to float,
Each word a wish that wouldn’t learn.

I never buried dreams that died—
They wandered off but never left.
They knock at dusk and slip inside,
Polite reminders of my theft.

I never buried those regrets
That crept beneath my cleanest days.
They hum in keys I won’t forget
And follow me in quiet ways.

I never buried parts of me
That cracked but somehow chose to stay.
They hold the light I couldn’t see
And guide me when I lose my way.

And though I’ve tried to dig and hide,
The past is soil that doesn’t keep.
The things I never said goodbye
Still plant their roots when I can’t sleep.

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Falling Leaves, Fading Chapters

I watched a leaf release its breath,
A golden sigh upon the air.
It tumbled softly into death,
A quiet dance without despair.

The wind, a gentle funeral song,
Caressed it with a lover’s grace.
It drifted, weightless, swept along,
No bitterness upon its face.

I thought of all I’ve had to leave,
The hands, the homes, the hollow years.
I thought of how we choose to grieve,
Of all we bury in our tears.

I saw myself in autumn’s fall,
A fragile thing, a fleeting name.
Each chapter closed, each silent call,
A softer ending than I claim.

I let the stillness speak to me,
I let the branches bend and sigh.
I let the leaf teach how to be—
To let things go without goodbye.

The leaves fall not from spite or fear,
But from a life that must renew.
Their fading paints the earth sincere,
A quiet blaze in every hue.

I whispered thanks to every breeze,
To every stem that dared release.
I whispered as the shadows seized,
And felt within a tender peace.

The leaf, the loss, the letting go—
All part of something vast and kind.
A truth the autumn leaves still know:
We lose, we fall, we rise, we find.

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Weight That Thought Me

I carried stones inside my chest,
Each one a name I could not speak.
They built a wall beneath my breast,
A fortress made of worn-out ache.

I carried rivers in my veins,
The floods of all I held too long.
They carved their maps through years of strain,
A quiet, slow, unspoken song.

I carried winters in my bones,
The weight of every frozen day.
I learned to sit with buried tones,
To breathe when everything was grey.

I carried shadows in my spine,
The silhouettes of what I lost.
I made their whispers into mine,
I bore their cold, I paid their cost.

I carried echoes in my skin,
Of hands that touched and then withdrew.
The ghosts of all I'd never win
Still burned like dawn’s unfinished blue.

I carried silence in my breath,
The quiet years that left no trace.
I let them settle, soft as death,
And still I wore them like a grace.

I carried gardens in my scars,
The roots of pain that bloomed instead.
I found the stars behind the bars,
I found the light in what was dead.

I carried flight within the fall,
The broken wings, the fractured sky.
I learned to rise despite it all,
To find the how without the why.

I carried storms that never stayed,
I carried suns that never shone.
And every time I knelt and prayed,
I stood again, remade, alone.

I carried weight until one day,
The weight became the wind, the air.
And in the breaking, I obeyed—
The weight that taught me how to bear.

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Wordless Peace

The river moves but never dies,
It carries all it cannot keep.
Beneath its glass, the silence lies,
A cradle where the old dreams sleep.

I watch it wind through stone and silt,
A silver ribbon pulled by time.
It bears the weight of love and guilt,
And every joy we failed to climb.

I see my face in trembling glass,
A thousand selves the waters hold.
I see the lives I let slip past,
The words unsaid, the hands left cold.

The river whispers soft and low,
It tells of storms it once endured.
It tells me there is room to grow,
That broken paths can be assured.

It teaches me to yield, not break,
To carry scars but still move on.
To weave the heartache and the ache
Into the light of every dawn.

It remembers what we forget:
The way the smallest stones can steer,
The way we carry quiet debt,
The weight of every vanished year.

And as it bends and drifts away,
I learn the art of soft release.
The river takes, the river stays,
And leaves behind a wordless peace.

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House I Carry

I carry a house upon my back,
A fragile frame of dreams and stone.
Its windows cracked, its timbers black,
But still I walk, and still alone.

Each wall is built from words unsaid,
From nights I stitched with fraying thread.
Its roof is shingled with the dread
Of all the tears I never shed.

I pass through valleys, rivers wide,
This house sways gently as I climb.
It holds the ones I left behind,
The echoes trapped in rooms of time.

It shelters me from bitter rain,
Yet weighs me down with silent years.
A monument to love and pain,
A quiet vault of hopes and fears.

I cannot leave it on the shore,
No matter how I long to flee.
It is my burden, evermore,
It is the marrow under me.

And still I rise, though shadows press,
And still I breathe beneath its beams.
I learn to walk with weight and mess,
To carve new roads from broken dreams.

For though I carry walls of glass,
I also carry seeds of spring.
And somewhere deep, beyond the past,
I carry hope. I carry wings.

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Garden Between My Ribs

There is a garden between my ribs,
A hidden place the world can't see.
It blooms in silence, softly lives,
A patch of green inside of me.

I never chose the seeds it sowed,
They came from storms I couldn’t flee.
Each broken word, each heavy load,
Took root beneath my shattered sea.

It grew through cracks, it pierced my bones,
With petals made of ache and flame.
A tangled web of buried tones,
Of whispered grief without a name.

It learned to rise through ash and dust,
To find the sun through darkest skies.
It taught me how to hope and trust
When every other voice told lies.

There in the hollow of my chest,
A thousand wildflowers remain.
They blossom still though never pressed,
They bloom through heartbreak, loss, and rain.

The garden holds my quiet wars,
The scars I wear, the dreams I keep.
It weaves my sorrow into stars,
And cradles me when I can't sleep.

So let me carry what it gives,
The thorns, the roots, the bloom, the sting.
For in the garden that still lives,
I am the soil. I am the spring.