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When Your Hands Are Empty #poemofhope #faithpoetry #spokenwordpoetry

There will be a season when you have done all you know to do and still, nothing. No answer at the door. No sudden change. No sign in the sky telling you that tomorrow will be kinder. Just you, your unanswered prayer, and the strange silence that makes you question whether God is still listening. He is. Do not mistake silence for absence. Some of God's deepest work happens without making a sound. Roots grow in darkness. Healing happens beneath skin. Morning begins long before the window knows there is light. And somewhere beyond what you can see, your life is being moved by hands you cannot follow. So do not abandon your faith because you cannot trace God's footsteps. You were never promised a clear view. You were given enough light for the next step. Take it. Even if your knees shake. Even if your heart has questions your mouth is afraid to ask. Take it. Faith is not a life without uncertainty. It is waking up with uncertainty beside you and refusing to let it choose your direc...
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A Soul in Search of Rest #sadpoetry #freeverse #poem

It was never easy,
not the kind of living
wrapped in gentle mornings
or softened by mercy.

It was a slow unraveling,
a quiet undoing of the self,
where tears did not simply fall,
they descended like burdens,
heavy with unspoken grief,
etching sorrow
into the hollow of your being.

Each drop carried a story,
each silence, a wound
too deep for language.

The days blurred into weight,
a suffocating presence
pressed against your chest,
where even breath
felt borrowed,
uncertain,
fragile as breaking glass.

And in that heaviness,
stress became a shadow,
faithful, relentless,
trailing your every step,
whispering exhaustion
into the marrow of your bones.

Isolation followed,
not as absence,
but as abandonment.

A world within a world
where voices faded,
where faces passed
without recognition,
where your existence
became a quiet echo
lost in crowded emptiness.

No hand reached.
No name was called.

Just you,
and the deafening stillness
of being unseen.

Then came poverty,
not merely the lack of coin,
but the erosion of dignity,
the slow theft of comfort,
the stripping away
of all that once resembled stability.

It crept like a cold wind
through broken spaces,
touching every corner of your life,
your hunger,
your sleep,
your fragile sense of worth.

It taught you how to survive
on fragments,
on less than enough,
on hope stretched thin
to the point of breaking.

And so you moved,
not living,
not fully gone,
but suspended somewhere in between.

A drifting presence,
a wandering echo,
a soul untethered
from meaning.

Like something lifeless
searching for warmth,
like a spirit abandoned
in the ruins of its own existence.

A dead soul,
walking among the living,
searching,
aching,
for a place to rest.

A place not of grandeur,
but of quiet belonging.

Yet even within that void,
within that unbearable stillness,
something refused to perish.

A flicker,
faint, trembling,
yet unyielding.

Because even the most broken soul
carries a whisper of return,
a silent defiance
against complete disappearance.

And though the journey is heavy,
Though the night stretches long,
there remains, somewhere unseen,

a place where the weary
may finally lay their burdens,
where the fractured
may gather their pieces,

and where even a soul
that felt long dead
may remember,
How to breathe again.


© 2026 Gloria Penelope

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