Graveyard of Silence

His lips, a locked vault,

where screams turn to whispers, then to echoes, then to nothing.

Pain folds itself into tight fists,

buried beneath the ribs,

like nameless bodies in forgotten graves.

He walks like a shadow carrying storms,

a thundercloud stitched into his spine,

yet the world calls it strength,

mistaking the silence for steel,

not knowing it's a rusting chain.

Every unspoken word is a ghost,

pacing the corridors of his mind,

knocking on the doors of his sanity,

pleading to be freed,

but he swallows them like bitter stones.

At night, the moon listens,

leaning close to his trembling chest,

where sobs bloom like wilted roses,

silent, unseen, misunderstood,

a garden of sorrow no one waters.

But even silence has a breaking point—

a dam will crack, a grave will open,

and the flood will not be gentle.

For a man's silence is not strength,

it is the weight of a world he was never meant to carry.

© Bunguswa ™