silent scream

silent scream
Silent Scream
In the hollow of midnight’s fragile seam,
Where shadows stitch the edges of a dream,
There lives a cry without a sound—
A pulse that shakes but won’t resound.

It blooms behind unblinking eyes,
A storm concealed by gentle skies,
A trembling leaf that dares not fall,
A cracking voice that does not call.

Lips stay still in practiced grace,
While thunder rages out of place.
The ribs become a guarded room
Where echoes press against their tomb.

It is the weight of unshed rain,
The quiet architecture of pain,
A violin with broken string
Still poised as if prepared to sing.

It moves in glances quickly turned,
In lessons lived but never learned,
In smiles stitched with silver thread
To hide the words that bled unsaid.

The silent scream has jagged wings—
It soars through ordinary things:
A crowded train, a dinner plate,
A clock that ticks a second late.

It asks for nothing, makes no plea,
Yet bends the spine invisibly.
A phantom hand upon the throat,
A swallowed storm, a sinking boat.

And still the world spins loud and bright,
Unaware of this muted fight.
For not all battles crash and gleam—
Some only flare in silent scream.

Yet deep within that soundless cry
A stubborn spark refuses to die.
For even voiceless hearts can learn
That quiet fires still fiercely burn.