WHISPERS OF THE UNSEEN

 
I carve my pain in ink and ash,

where shadows dance and memories clash.

A ghostly echo, a silent plea,

the cries of hearts no one can see.

Joy eludes my weary hand,

like dust that slips through tightened strands.

A world of gray, of shattered dreams,

where sorrow flows in endless streams.

Some may feel the weight I bear,

others scoff, pretend not to care.

Too much, too deep, too lost, too raw,

yet truth still bleeds from every flaw.

I am the voice of silence cold,

a tale of wounds left dark, untold.

A nobody—fading, torn apart,

a somebody—etched in bleeding art.

A name forgotten in the wind,

a soul condemned, a fate akin

to drifting leaves in autumn’s chill,

forever lost, yet screaming still.

I walk the edge of dusk and death,

a hollow heart, a frozen breath.

No dawn to chase, no stars remain,

just whispered ghosts that know my name.