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...
Beneath white lights and whispered hours,
an elder rests on borrowed time,
veins tracing maps of many years,
a life now folded into a bed of steel.
Machines speak where strength no longer can,
soft beeps counting fragile breaths.
Doctors move with careful hands and eyes,
Doing all that knowledge still allows.
Hope stands quietly at the doorway,
afraid to step too close.
Charts say what hearts refuse to hear—
that survival is a fading word.
Children hold hands they once were held by,
their prayers trembling, unschooled in miracles.
Family gathers in sacred silence,
each tear a question heaven must answer.
“God,” they whisper into the night,
“heal what medicine cannot touch.
If not forever, then grant a little more—
a season, a year, one more sunrise.”
The room fills with faith and fear entwined,
where love kneels louder than despair,
and even as hope grows thin,
prayer refuses to let go.
© 2026 Gloria Penelope
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