He walks in rooms that echo back
Not with voices, but with lack.
A chair, a coat, a half-poured glass
The kind of stillness that lasts.
No one asks if he’s okay,
They see the mask, then look away.
Strong, they say, like stone or steel
But never ask what stones might feel.
He learns to laugh in muted tones,
To carry weight that’s not his own.
A brother, father, friend, or ghost
Yet never quite know what matters most.
The nights are long, the silence is loud,
He blends into the faceless crowd.
Not broken, just a bit unheard and unseen
A man who dreams in between.
But still he hopes, and still he tries,
To find a truth behind the guise.
That maybe strength is not alone
But while reaching and being known.