A poem about death

 

“The Visitor”

He knocks, but never breaks the door,

Just waits beneath the moonlit floor.

His cloak is stitched with silence deep,

His breath is still, his eyes asleep.

He doesn’t rush, he doesn’t plead,

He has no hunger, has no need.

He only comes when time is thin—

A shadow asking to come in.

He walks like fog across the years,

With hands not cold, but full of tears.

He carries names we used to say,

Now faded ghosts of yesterday.

He speaks not words, but memory,

The ache of what we’ll cease to be.

Yet in his palm—a seed of grace,

A rest, a dream, a final place.

And though I tremble at his touch,

I find I do not fear him much.

For Death, I see, is not the end—

But time’s last breath, and time’s old friend.

Silence

The Silence Between Us

There is a silence in this room

that breathes like something still alive—

it curls around the dying bloom,

it waits for dusk, it waits to thrive.

Your eyes don’t move, your hands don’t shake,

but shadows gather at your feet.

The words we never dared to make

hang heavy, hollow, incomplete.

The candles drown in wax and sleep,

the walls lean in to overhear.

In silence, what we couldn’t keep

returns in whispers, sharp and clear.

Your love was never loud or bright—

it crept in like a winter storm,

a velvet hush, a hunger bite,

too cold to kill, too slow to warm.

And now you sit, a ghost in skin,

the silence ringing like a bell.

I trace the edge of where you’ve been—

a silence I have learned too well.

In the house of Silence 

In the hush where voices fade,

Silence weaves its soft cascade—

A breath between the notes of sound,

Where peace and wonder both are found.

It speaks in tones the soul can hear,

In stillness drawing echoes near,

A whisper not from lips or air,

But something ancient, always there.

It lives where twilight meets the sea,

Where thoughts drift slow and minds roam free,

Not emptiness, but something whole,

A quiet mirror of the soul.

It cradles grief, it sharpens joy,

It holds the truths we can’t destroy.

In silence, time forgets to run,

And shadows sleep beneath the sun.

So sit with it—no need to flee,

The quiet is a kind of key.

It does not ask, it does not tell,

But there, the heart may learn to dwell.

Letters to oneself

 Dear Tracey, 

Today I left you a message,

What time was it when we met? 

You used to make me laugh and giggle 

Like a high school girl 

We sat and talked all night 

I spoke to you as I sat in your car 

I told you today is the day I left you 

Winter Sonata 

Everyday for what it’s worth you did it 

You beared the winter in your heart 

Whether its out of love or hate 

You beared the harshest winters in your heart 

You laughed, loved, hated and smiled in the winter night 

You looked out your window and saw the pure white  

The pure white snow that touched the ground 

The white that coerced your human nature 

As you look out the window you see the snow 

You look out to see winters in high mountains 

The high white mountains call you  

They say,” We are here for you, come to the mountains to see us” 

As you open your window a voice call to you again 

“Winter is here. The White Mountain is calling you.”