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Adalyn Alcott Poem
There is a grief that whispers, not a cry,
A subtle ache beneath a practiced eye.
It does not shatter, bleed, or loudly break,
But shifts the self in every small mistake.
We honor storms that split the sky in two,
Yet miss the quiet fractures passing through—
A pause too long, a smile held too tight,
A dimming edge we overlook in light.
For wounds may bloom in silence, slow and thin,
A hidden crack that deepens from within.
No witness stands, no sirens claim the night,
Just inward fading, out of mind and sight.
So tread with care in every passing face,
Each soul a ledger time cannot erase.
The deepest pain may never speak, nor show—
It softens first, and no one sees it grow.
Copyright © Adalyn Alcott | Year Posted 2026
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Adalyn Alcott Poem
The street exhales in measured, patient light,
Where footsteps keep a cadence soft and slow,
An I, a witness to the day, walk on—
While somewhere in my mind, a name begins to grow.
A stone appears where none was set before,
Its surface pale with weather, time, and loss;
No hands in sight, yet carved with patient care—
A name, a date, and silence etched across.
It feels so close, yet too far to reach,
As if the thought itself has learned to wait;
A whispered echo at the edge of speech,
Where life and stillness almost hesitate.
A though intrudes, unbidden, keen, and still,
It settles where the quiet held its form;
Not summoned by intent, yet marks the will,
A distant tremor in an unseen storm.
I measure life against what time unthreads,
Each breath a brief inscription on the air;
The body writes what memory still treads,
And fades into the grammar of the bare.
And still I walk, the cadence kept and known,
The sky unchanged, though meanings rearrange;
What lingers is not lost, but overgrown,
A quiet thought, persistent, yet estranged.
Copyright © Adalyn Alcott | Year Posted 2026
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Adalyn Alcott Poem
I mourn your death, though you still breathe and speak,
No carved stone waits where your memory should lie;
I hear a silence where your laughter used to peak,
And rehearse your absence like a practiced goodbye.
There is no grave to mark the shape of your end,
No earth has closed where your shadow might remain,
Yet I still kneel where I imagine you’ll descend,
Tracing future hollowed out by unnamed pain.
I build you a coffin out of all I cannot say,
And line it with the seconds you have not yet lost,
Each one a small betrayal of a coming day,
Each one a quiet accounting of an unseen cost.
Your voice still stands, but I already hear it fade,
Like a room remembering the furniture gone cold,
Like iron slowly learning to degrade,
While no hand has yet dared to make the story old.
So I learn your leave before it learns your name,
And I grieve a shape that time has not agreed to form;
A future stitched from silence, woe, and borrowed flame,
Where I know no stone—only pain keeping me warm.
Copyright © Adalyn Alcott | Year Posted 2026
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Adalyn Alcott Poem
I watched my bedroom fold into dimmer light,
The mirror learned to flinch away from sight,
My name slipped off the wall like fading chalk,
Home turned its face and forgot how to talk.
The hallway hummed a hollow, distant tone,
Like every echo learned to leave me alone,
My heartbeat frayed into the brittle air,
As every inner voice dissolved in a scare.
My hands forgot the weight of being home,
I felt myself recede, begin to roam,
A stranger leaned inside my borrowed skin,
And quietly erased the girl within.
Copyright © Adalyn Alcott | Year Posted 2026
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Adalyn Alcott Poem
In the heart, something ungoverned hums beneath the language of reason.
In the heart, feeling refuses names, slipping past definition like light through unclosed curtains.
In the heart, grief softens into a quiet weight, mistaken for emptiness by those who have not held it.
In the heart, desire grows in secret, wild and unchecked, asking for nothing it can justify.
In the heart, memory rearranges itself, a gallery where nothing hangs where it once did.
In the heart, words arrive too late,
Already inadequate to what they attempt to contain.
In the heart, we learn attachment not as theory, but as ache.
In the heart, pleasure leans too closely to pain, the two speaking in nearly identical voices.
In the heart, thought turns inward, questioning itself until meaning frays.
In the heart, the body remembers what the mind abandons.
In the heart, the self flickers, uncertain, unfinished.
In the heart, shame settles deep, unnamed but always understood.
In the heart, time stretches under sorrow, each moment lingering past its welcome.
In the heart, love becomes too many things at once: devotion, hunger, illusion.
In the heart, fear redraws the world in harsher lines.
In the heart, clarity becomes cold, almost cruel in its honesty.
In the heart, hope remains anyway—small, unreasonable, alive.
In the heart, contradictions make a home beside one another.
In the heart, silence is full, not empty.
In the heart, everything is felt too deeply, until feeling disappears alltogether.
Copyright © Adalyn Alcott | Year Posted 2026
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Adalyn Alcott Poem
Something small with too many legs
Decides your skin is where it begs.
The edge of height calls out your name,
The fall below repeats the same.
A thought that grows and will not cease,
It feeds itself, denies you peace.
Pain, not here but drawing near,
Already whispers in your ear.
A room that seals what once was wide;
No door remains, no place to hide.
A laugh behind—too sharp, too late;
You turn to find it imitate.
A scent that clings, a quiet bloom,
You are the source within the room.
A needle waits, a sharpened breath,
A pointed promise close to death.
The mirror stalls, then lets you see
A shape you fear you’ll always be.
Cells divide in silent fright;
Unseen, unchecked, beneath the light.
The walls lean close without a sound,
They press until you’re tightly bound.
Your voice dissolves when eyes appear,
It folds itself and disappears.
Your body falters, weak and slight,
A trembling loss of inner might.
The thunder counts what you cannot name,
Each strike repeats your hidden shame.
You fail before you even start,
A quiet fracture in the heart.
A future where no one remains,
Just empty rooms and echoed names.
A number stretching without end;
No edge, no break, no final bend.
Strange hollow patterns split and grow,
In clustered depths you cannot know.
The ocean yawns too vast, too deep,
It does not wake, it does not sleep.
Dark forests breathe and learn your pace,
Each tree a watcher in that place.
Something buried, not yet gone;
It stirs beneath the coming dawn.
Dependence pulls, a heavy chain;
You lean, you fall, you feel the drain.
The world goes dry—no drop, no relief,
Just a cracking thirst beneath belief.
Punishment with no offense,
A verdict passed without defense.
To simply be is not enough;
They feel the need to call any bluff.
Copyright © Adalyn Alcott | Year Posted 2026
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Adalyn Alcott Poem
They cradle absence in inherited creed,
A sculpted sky of words they never test,
Where certainty outgrows the need to read
The fine-print silence lurking in each rest.
They build a Heaven stitched from stolen light,
A fragile citadel of borrowed breath,
Where doubt is taught to bow and step from sight,
And fear is softened into faith till death.
For Heaven lives in language, not in ground,
A story tuned to quiet human dread,
A place that only ever can be found
Within the living, not among the dead.
And when the final pulse gives out its claim,
No gates unbar, no choir bends the air;
Just vast unlit indifference, no name,
Where belief fades into a wordless stare.
Copyright © Adalyn Alcott | Year Posted 2026
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