When Silence Spoke Louder Than Storms

When silence spoke louder than storms,

I stood alone in a room of thunder,

Where walls were stitched with the sighs of yesterday,

And echoes hung like unfinished prayers.

I wasn't here to get answers— I came because the questions had voices

And they whispered through the marrow of my bones

Like rain tapping on forgotten windows.

They said,

“Who are you when no one is watching?”

“What dream dies first when your soul is cold?”

“How many masks did you wear before the mirror shattered?”

I had no reply.

Only a heartbeat—

Heavy, hesitant, human.

The world was loud.

News bulletins screamed of war,

Markets crashed like hopes from tall towers,

curated grins blinked across the screens. While somewhere, a child

Folded hunger into paper cranes.

We scroll, we swipe,

We forget how to cry without emojis.

We share revolutions but not revolting truths.

And all the while, silence grows—

A garden watered by all we left unsaid.

I met a man who once planted a tree

In a place where trees had forgotten how to grow.

He named it “Hope.”

And every day,

He spoke to it as if speaking to the world.

He told me,

Roots are better listeners than kings' ears. Speak kindly to the unseen.

They are the ones shaping your fate.”

That night, I dreamt of bridges

Made not of stone but of forgiveness.

Each step was a name I once resented.

Each arch, a wound learning to close.

Do we ever walk fully healed?

Or are we merely scattered pilgrims? Moving from shadow to shadow

Trying to remember the shape of the sun?

A woman, older than sorrow, once sang to me.

Her voice was smoke wrapped in velvet.

She sang to break the silence, not to be heard. That had caged her ribs for decades.

And in her tremble, I found my rhythm.

I uncovered my strength during her pause. Because it’s not the loudest voice

But the truest one

That reshapes the earth beneath our feet.

We are not the labels we wear.

We are not the borders drawn by strangers.

We are not broken, only becoming.

Not fallen, only unfolding.

So I wrote letters to my past selves:

“To the girl who thought her worth depended on grades—

You are more than numbers.”

“To the boy who hated his own name—

You carry stars in your silence.”

“To the child who feared being alone—

Aloneness is not emptiness. It is origin.”

Now, I gather moments like a monk gathers morning.

Quietly.

Gratefully.

With trembling hands.

I speak less now—

Not because I lack knowledge, But because I’ve seen how words can both heal and harm.

And I’ve chosen to let my silence be soft,

Not sharp.

I walk without answers,

But with arms open like unfinished poems.

Additionally, whenever life asks, “Are you ready?”

I whisper back,

“No. But I will try anyway.”

Because trying is a kind of courage too.

And hope,

Though it doesn’t shout,

Builds empires

In the chambers of the unheard.

Therefore, when silence is more powerful than storms, Listen.

It is not emptiness.

It is the first sound

Of becoming whole.

Author’s Note:

This poem was born from a deep reflection on the modern world’s noise and the profound need for silence that restores rather than isolates. Through metaphors and real-life fragments, I tried to capture what it means to live authentically in an age of performance, and how often, the most powerful transformations begin not with answers—but with honest, human questions. It is dedicated to those who are still listening, even when the world forgets to speak gently.