Silent Storm

It churns beneath my placid face, unseen—
a hush before the lightning strikes my soul.
No thunder claps, no clouds turn violet green,
just tremors while these echoes take their toll.

A tear denied becomes a hidden tide,
gathering all this ache I left unsaid.
The page becomes my only place to hide,
each stanza written in this ink I bled.

I wear composure like a tattered cloak,
but every metaphor is cracked and worn.
Still, in the hush of dawn, I dare evoke
a warmth from words—though shattered, still forlorn.

And if I break, I break beneath the form—
a whispered cry inside this silent storm.