By Manta Sidhu
A Poet's solace, a widow's cry,
a love betrayed, a son's goodbye.
In moments of weakness it consumes the soul,
until like a faceless name lost in the noise,
the void becomes whole.
It swallows the air, it swallows the night,
and like a creature that’s prowling
It lingers through the light.
In the depths of calmness, it claws at its cages,
so on the surface it fuels a stillness that rages.
Parted lips and clenched fists
turned to stone by a deafening riot,
of cries that sunk before they rose
to wallow in choruses
that worship the quiet.
It follows through time, it slows down the hour,
and like the hunted held captive,
we bow to its power.
In the darkness of solitude it imprisons the flightless,
so on the lightest of chains all words become formless.
Distant eyes and shallow breaths
drift through the sea of truths unspoken,
while parched throats and dry mouths ache,
to drink from the vessel
of voices once taken.
A father’s shame, an empty home,
a prayer unanswered, a fate unknown.
In moments of weakness it consumes the soul
until like a faceless name lost in the noise,
the void becomes whole.