Emmanuel Bermudez "A silence called solitude"

Published by Emmanuel Bermundez, ProMosaik Poetry

A Silence Called Solitude - Emmanuel Bermudez

In halls of forgotten, dust-covered grace,

I wander alone through a shadowy place.

No voices remain, no laughter, no song—

Only the silence that lingers too long.

The windows are smudged with the breath of the past,

And every reflection is fading too fast.

The days blur together, the nights stretch like thread,

Spun from the thoughts I wish I had said.

The wind in the trees sounds like someone who cries,

A sorrowful hymn beneath endless skies.

And the moon, though it watches, speaks nothing at all,

A silent observer of my quiet fall.

I speak to the stars—they never respond,

Their shimmer is cold, distant and fond.

I tell them my secrets, I whisper my pain,

But they twinkle away, like ghosts in the rain.

My footsteps are heavy, yet no one can hear,

Like walking through time where nothing is near.

I pass through the world like a shadow unseen,

A flicker, a whisper, a pause in between.

People surround me with bright, vivid faces,

But I float like a ghost through crowded places.

They talk, they laugh, they live and they shine,

While I sit in the corner pretending I'm fine.

Sadness is not loud—it creeps in like frost,

Covering dreams that I thought I had lost.

It lingers in coffee left cold by the sill,

In books never finished, in time standing still.

And solitude sits in her velvet-cloaked chair,

With fingers like mist that tangle my hair.

She strokes every memory, sharp as a blade,

Reminding me softly of all that has faded.

The mirror reflects not the face that I know,

But a stranger whose eyes have forgotten their glow.

Once full of wonder, of fire and song—

Now quiet, now weary, now waiting too long.

I write down my thoughts, I scribble and scrawl,

On pages that crumble and dreams that fall.

Each word is a tear, each line is a sigh,

A soft, silent scream that will never fly.

The world spins on in its glittering grace,

Yet I’m rooted here in a faraway place.

A country of silence, a kingdom of night,

Where dawn feels a myth and stars lose their light.

But in the depths of this sorrowful sea,

A voice not my own still whispers to me:

“There is strength in the breaking, a truth in the ache,

A beauty in all the hearts that break.”

So I gather the pieces, each fragment, each shard,

Though lifting them feels unbearably hard.

I weave them together with ink and with flame,

Creating a story from sadness and shame.

And maybe one day, when someone feels lost,

When life seems too heavy, too cruel with its cost—

They’ll find these same words that I bleed in the dark,

And feel not alone with their shivering heart.

So I walk on, though the road is unknown,

Though the silence still wraps me, and I am alone.

For even in sorrow, I choose to remain—

To speak through the silence, and sing through the pain.