The Man Who Painted Silence

The Man Who Painted Silence

He never spoke a single word,

But filled his world with brush and hue,

Each canvas breathed the things he’d felt,

Each stroke a truth no tongue could do.

He painted storms that broke the sea,

He painted eyes that wept for light,

He caught the hush between two hearts,

The soundless ache of endless night.

They asked him once, “What drives your hand?”

He smiled and simply turned away,

Then painted hands that reached for hands,

That always slipped but tried to stay.

When death came slow one April dawn,

He left a note beside his chair,

It said, “The noise was far too loud,

I painted peace because it’s rare.”

And now his art still hangs in halls,

Where people stare, but seldom see,

That silence isn’t empty space,

It’s just where souls go to be free.