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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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You've hit a snag #poem #sadpoetry #freeverse

You have struck a hidden fracture, a snag,
not upon my being,
no, not upon this unmoving ground,
but within the labyrinth you so carefully architected,
brick by fragile brick of cunning and conceit.

Do not cast your gaze here.
I am not the wall that faltered,
nor the silence that yielded.
I am the still axis, unmoved, unclaimed,
beyond the reach of your unravelling designs.

You are not worth the currency of my hours,
not a second of breath to be bartered
for the hollow theatre you rehearse,
where gestures masquerade as power,
and deception drapes itself in the garments of intellect.

Your deeds,
ah, those erratic constellations of intent,
burn briefly across a sky of borrowed brilliance,
only to fade into the abyss of their own contradiction.
Each step you take circles a void,
a choreography of misdirection mistaken for mastery.

Your tactics,
woven in dim-lit corridors of calculation,
where whispers ferment into fragile strategies,
collapse beneath the weight of their own pretence.
For what is craft without truth,
But a blade forged of brittle glass?

And your lifestyle,
a ceaseless game of shifting masks and silent wagers,
rests upon a foundation that trembles at the slightest truth.
You gamble with shadows,
mistaking their movement for substance,
their silence for allegiance.

You have struck a snag,
can you not feel its quiet defiance?
That subtle rupture beneath your certainty,
that pause where your illusions falter
and reality, uninvited, seeps through the cracks?

It is not loud.
It does not rage nor roar,
but it is final in its presence,
a quiet undoing of everything you believed unbreakable.

It will not work.
Not here,
where perception is not deceived by ornament,
nor truth obscured by elaborate disguise.
Not against a spirit that does not chase,
nor wrestle with passing storms.

Bring forth your schemes,
your intricate webs spun from restless ambition,
Your calculated chaos shaped to ensnare,
they dissolve upon arrival,
like mist before an unyielding dawn.

For I do not contend,
I do not engage in games of hollow conquest,
I stand where substance outlives spectacle,
where stillness outlasts the noise of pretence.

You have struck a snag,
not in me,
But in the very illusion you mistook for dominion.

And now,
There is no passage forward,
no clever detour,
no hidden path left to tread.

Only the quiet reckoning
of a game that has reached
its inevitable end.


© 2026 Gloria Penelope

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