"Silhouette of Silence"

In the hush of dusk, a figure stands,

A whisper carved by unseen hands.

No face, no name—just shape and shade,

A soul where silent storms cascade.

Hair tousled by the breath of night,

Eyes unseen, yet full of light.

The wind may speak, the sky may cry,

But this still frame will not reply.

Who is he—this shadowed grace,

A question drawn in negative space?

A dream perhaps, or distant flame,

That time forgot to give a name.

Each line of him—an unsaid word,

A symphony that no one heard.

The silhouette, though dark and bare,

Holds every thought we wish we’d share.

He could be joy, or grief, or rage,

A poet trapped within a page.

A memory that fades too soon,

Or just a boy who loved the moon.

So let him stand against the light,

This tender ghost of black and white.

For in his stillness we may find,

Reflections of our own lost mind.