Before the Silence Claims Me

Before the silence claims me whole,

Before the dusk erases light,

Let me unfurl what's in my soul—

The things I dream in quiet night.

For I have held within my chest

A storm of thoughts, untamed, unspoken.

And feared that I, like all the rest,

Would vanish with my verses broken.

So many lines I’ve yet to write,

So many truths I’ve yet to name,

Ideas that rise in starless night,

And fall at dawn, unknown to fame.

The ink is warm, the page is bare,

The clock keeps moving, blind and cold.

And I, with half a breath to spare,

Still chase a story never told.

What if I cease before I bloom,

Before my fire turns to flame?

What if I slip into the gloom,

A ghost without a voice or name?

I see the shelves of time grow tall

With books I’ve never dared to make.

My hands reach out—but shadows fall—

And every reach becomes a break.

And yet I write. I write to live.

Each word, a stone against the flood.

Each thought, a drop I dare to give

Before I'm swallowed by the mud.

I’ve loved in glances, swift and brief,

A smile, a touch, then distance wide.

And feared the grief, the silent grief

Of never standing by love’s side.

Fair creature of a single hour,

I saw you once, across the street.

The wind had brought your hair to flower,

Our eyes had crossed—but did not meet.

And since that day, I've dreamed of you—

Not as a person, but as fate.

A symbol drawn in stardust blue,

A love the world would not create.

How cruel it is, this passing state,

Where time forgets the worth of feeling.

We build, we lose, we call it fate,

While all our open wounds need healing.

Sometimes, I walk alone at dawn,

Before the world begins to stir,

And wonder what I’ll leave upon

The earth, before I fade from her.

Not statues, no—nor gilded fame,

Not echoes shouted through the hall.

But maybe, in some hidden flame,

A single poem to outlast all.

To write is to rebel with grace,

To challenge silence with a song.

To carve my shape in time and space,

And say: I lived. I did belong.

Each line I shape becomes a prayer—

Not to a god, but to the sky.

A wish that when I’m not here,

My words might still know how to fly.

For every poet holds this fear:

That what they feel is left unheard.

That though the heart may burn sincere,

The world forgets each fragile word.

And so I fight the pull of rest,

Resisting sleep that steals the page.

The weight of dreams still on my chest,

The ticking echo of the cage.

What is a life if not the sum

Of questions whispered into dark?

If answers never fully come,

Still let me kindle one small spark.

The stars look down—they do not speak.

The sea rolls on—it does not care.

And yet I write. I write to seek

A place where wonder still feels fair.

Love may not knock upon my door,

Nor glory rest upon my name.

But in this act, I ask no more—

Than truth, than thought, than sacred flame.

And if I die before the dawn,

Before the final lines arrive,

Know that this poet still pressed on,

And in his verses, was alive.

So bury me not with regret,

Nor measure what I left undone.

For in each syllable, I’ve met

The rising and the setting sun.

Let others chase the throne, the crown,

Let others count the gold they gain.

I chased the words that don’t stay down,

The fleeting fire inside the brain.

And when they read me, if they do,

Let it be not for rhyme or fame—

But for the ache, the sharp and true

Desire to touch life’s holy flame.

To kiss the sky with nothing left,

To shout one truth into the void,

To feel, though fleeting, not bereft—

But full, though fragile, though destroyed.

So if I go, I go with grace,

Not empty, not unheard, unseen.

For I have lived in language’s face,

And touched the space that lies between.

Between the stars and mortal dust,

Between the breath and final sigh—

Where poems bloom because they must,

And dreamers write before they die.