23/08/2025
The Quietest Room
There was a man who lived with the night,
he spoke to the moon instead of the light.
He walked through silence, calm as the rain,
finding in stillness a gentle refrain.
He said to himself, “Alone, I am free,
no chains of the crowd, no eyes upon me.
The world is a storm, but I am the shore,
peace is my kingdom, I ask for no more.”
And truly, the quiet wrapped him like gold,
like a blanket of warmth against the cold.
In solitude’s garden, he planted his days,
a soft little heaven in shadowed ways.
But the seasons changed, and the air grew thin,
echoes of laughter no longer came in.
The peace he once held began to decay,
like flowers that bloom, then wither away.
For silence, though sweet, can turn into screams,
like rivers that drown the man in his dreams.
The walls that once guarded now felt like a tomb,
his room of stillness became his doom.
He whispered, “I am free, yet I am confined,
the war I escaped is now in my mind.
For peace without voices, without a face,
is nothing but chaos in a quiet place.”
He thought he was strong, but the truth came slow:
the line between alone and lonely will show.
Solitude heals, like a soft gentle stream,
but loneliness kills, like a blade in a dream.
And here lies the twist—the saddest of all:
when they found the man, he was still in his hall.
A smile on his lips, as if free at last,
but his diary confessed the truth of the past:
“I loved the silence, I loved the night,
but silence, in time, devours the light.
Peace was a mask, loneliness the core—
I wanted no chains, yet I longed for more.”
So the loneliest man was never alone,
he carried a crowd inside his own bones.
A thousand voices, a thousand cries—
yet no one heard him as he slowly died.
