The Weight and the Window

There is a darkness, thick and cold,

A silence heavy, rough, and old.

It wraps around like iron chains,

A storm of shadows, endless rains.

Eyes sink deep where light won’t go,

Every breath feels cracked and slow.

Colors fade to muted gray,

Hope seems distant, locked away.

But in that hollow, quiet space,

Where sorrow leaves its hollow trace,

A fragile whisper stirs the air—

A softness born from deep despair.

For when the world is stripped and bare,

You start to notice what is rare:

The gentle flicker of a flame,

A bird that sings without a name.

A kindness offered without ask,

A moment's warmth behind the mask.

Raindrops painting silver streams,

Small mercies found in shattered dreams.

You see the cracks, but also light,

The stars that only bloom at night.

You learn to sit with ache and fear,

And hold them close instead of near.

And from that depth, the soul re-forms,

A heart remade by passing storms.

A softer gaze, a listening ear,

A wisdom born from every tear.

The darkness teaches, harsh and true,

But from its black, strange colors bloom.

Not joy that blinds, nor bliss that fades,

But beauty born in deeper shades.