There is a place inside you No map has ever traced, a quiet room behind the ribs where light forgets to stay. No one sees it when you smile, No one hears it when you speak. It moves beneath your laughter like a river running deep. It is yours alone to carry, not carved for other hands, a language made of silence Only your soul understands. Some mornings it is heavier, a stone you cannot name, And still you rise and wear your life as if it were the same. But pain, it does not leave you when ignored or pushed away, it waits within the folds of time, it learns you day by day. It is not your enemy, though it cuts without a sound; it is the truth you buried but still lives underground. And yes, there are nights it breaks you, when endurance feels too wide, when even breath feels borrowed And there is nowhere left to hide. Yet somehow you continue, not because you do not fall, but because within the breaking You still answer life’s call. You learn to walk beside it, not beneath it, not above...
Rotten leaves cling to the ground,
once green, now bitter with time,
they crunch beneath honest footsteps,
forgotten by the tree that let them go.
Moulded bread sits in the dark,
softness turned sour,
blue veins spreading where warmth once lived,
a quiet warning no one heeds.
So is a heart that feeds on cruelty—
once capable of kindness,
now hardened by envy and spite,
sharing words that poison more than hunger.
A mean soul walks loudly,
believing sharp tongues are strength,
never noticing how the air recoils,
How doors close without sound.
Time, however, has patience.
Karma does not rush.
It works like rot—
slow, unseen, faithful to truth.
The leaves return to the soil,
The bread is thrown away,
and the heart that chose decay
must sit with what it became.
For nothing foul stays hidden forever;
What we spread, we step on later.
And in the end,
only what nourishes life
is allowed to remain.
© 2025 Gloria Penelope
Comments