The Quiet War

Beneath the skin, a silent storm

a clockwork heart, a mind unsworn.

We stitch our scars with borrowed light,

while shadows duel in endless night.

The world insists on polished grace,

yet tears corrode the public face.

We scroll through lives we’ll never lead,

and starve the ache with hollow speed.

But hands, once clenched, can learn to bloom,

unfurl like roots through fractured gloom.

The bravest act? To pause, to breathe

to plant a seed where wounds still seethe.

For strength is not the absence’s cost,

but how we mend what’s frayed and lost.

Hold fast—the dawn will climb, unplanned,

to meet the tremors in your hand.