In The Quiet That Stirs The Soul

He sat on edge of hush and sky,  

where reeds swayed soft like whispered grace,  

and the lake, a glass of liquid light,  

held stars not yet born in their place.

 

The world exhaled in gentle hues,  

where time forgot to press or pry—  

and in that pause, his sorrows fell,  

like leaves that knew it was time to die.  

He looked where the world forgot to speak,  

beneath a sky of borrowed gold,  

where still waters cradled light  

and every breath felt centuries old.   

 

The sky, a canvas brushed by balm,  

poured stillness into weary veins,  

and all he was—uncertain, lost—  

unfolded wide with loosened chains. 

The trees stood like sentinels of calm,  

their shadows long, their whispers deep,  

and time—for once—unclenched its grip,  

allowing broken hearts to sleep. 

 

In mirrored sky and hush of green, 

he shed the names the world had called, 

and in that fragile, glowing hush, 

the weight he bore began to fall.  

No thunder spoke, no herald cried,  
yet something deep began to heal—  
as if the quiet, cloaked in dawn, 
had taught him how to truly feel.

 A tear, not born from grief but grace,  

slipped down a cheek warmed by the breeze—  

for beauty, quiet, and complete,  

had knelt his restlessness to ease.  

And though the world would call him back,  

with all its noise, its push, its climb,  

he’d carry still this silent place  

within the marrow of his time.  

 ~ Copyright ©EmperatrizV @Sunflower for Emily,   29June 2025 - All Rights Reserved