Untitled

No thunder needs a jurist’s seal To split the sovereign sky; No winter begs permission Before the gardens die.

The river never hurries, Yet kingdoms learn its name. It doesn’t conquer all at once. It wears the throne away.

The moon has never touched the sea, Yet still it bends the tide. Distance has no mercy When the force lives deep inside.

Some tempests wear a quiet face, A practiced, vacant stare. They sit inside the ribcage Like a church with no one there.

The rafters drip with old despair, The floorboards softened out, Where every prayer grows moldy Before it leaves the mouth.

The steeple points to empty blue, Still begging for replies. No bell announces ruin When the saints refuse to rise.

Beneath the surface, pressure gathered, Fault lines practicing their hymn. No seismograph took measure But the earth still broke within.

Some sorrows are subterranean, Old rivers under clay. They do not ask permission Before they wear the earth away.

There are aquifers of anguish Under every laughing field, Deep catacombs of water That no surface will reveal.

Some wounds arrive without a bruise, Some storms refuse a sound. A house may stand immaculate And still be burning down.

A locked door is still a doorway To a room concealing war; Not every buried kingdom Leaves its bones above the floor.

Not every wound announces blood, Not every grave has stone. Some coffins learn to walk upright And call their silence home.

The garden smiles in sunlight, Still rotting at the root. By the time the branches blacken, No spring can bargain fruit.

A bridge gives out in seconds, But not because it chose. It carried every silent strain No traveler ever knows.

You only count the moment The branches meet the ground. You never hear the thousand cracks That never made a sound.

A star can spend its centuries Collapsing out of view. Still, distant eyes call nothing wrong Until the darkness blooms.

Its absence stains the heavens Before the world sees proof. Yet still they argue with the dark And doubt the wound’s own truth.

Must every wound present a knife, Must ash confess a flame? Why search the room for evidence Before you speak its name?

Must sorrow leave a signature In salt upon the floor? Must ruin wear regalia Before it’s called a war?

Who asks the blood for witnesses Before it’s called a stain? Who cross-examines quicksand For swallowing the terrain?

Who asks the dark for evidence Before it earns abyss? Who argues with the shadows For daring to exist?

And still the world demands a ledger, Some inventory of ache, As though a soul must file its ruin Before it’s allowed to break.

Who calls the pain a rumor still Until it stains the sleeve, As if a wound must bloom in red To make the hurt believed.

So spare the courtroom questions, The autopsy of pain. Not every famine bares its teeth. Some starve without display.

No one blames the shoreline For yielding to the sea. They only mourn the houses Where families used to be.

See how the estuary Unthreads the sovereign shore. Not conquest, but attrition, Until the coast is shore no more.

The mountain owes no motive When stones begin to slide. Some graves are built in daylight With the mourner still inside.

So tell me – Why is silence evidence That nothing hurt at all, When even stars collapse unseen Long before we see them fall?