Whispers Between the Light and Dark

I used to wonder if shadows had voices,

Whispering secrets of the forgotten,

Of lost things, broken and bound in silence,

Beneath the weight of an endless night.

I thought I could be the light in the dark,

But the dark has no need for light—

It consumes it, swallows it whole,

Until all that remains is the absence of fire.

I’ve walked the edges of forgotten roads,

Where no one has stepped in centuries.

The trees bend, their limbs twisted with secrets,

Their roots entangled with regrets.

I once believed I could be the storm,

Torrential and wild, shaking the earth beneath me,

But storms are fleeting—

They howl, they rage,

And then they disappear,

Leaving only the silence of the aftermath.

I thought I was made of thunder and rage,

But I am nothing more than the echo—

The sound that lingers after the storm has passed,

A whisper in the ruins,

A memory of something that was never truly alive.

I used to ache to be the flame—

A spark that could ignite the world,

But I am the cold wind that follows,

The frost that creeps into your bones,

Turning warmth into a memory you can no longer recall.

I am not the shadow, nor the flame,

I am the place where they meet—

Where darkness and light kiss,

And the chill settles into the heart,

Unseen, yet felt, like a wound that never heals.