The room is small, yet larger than my breath.
It holds the hush that gathers after cries,
A clock that taps its knuckles against death,
And asks no questions, offers no replies.
The mirror keeps a rumor of my face,
A fading watermark of who I’ve been;
I trace the outline, searching for a trace
Of something sturdier beneath the skin.
The mind can make a corridor of night
So long it swallows every distant door;
It names the dark as permanent, as right,
And calls the weary heart to want no more.
Yet even now, a thin, persistent thread
Of morning tugs: not gone—just faintly spread.
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Author:
Matthew R. Callies (
Offline) - Published: February 17th, 2026 06:40
- Category: Unclassified
- Views: 17
- Users favorite of this poem: Tristan Robert Lange
Offline)
Comments3
Darkness falls but even in the darkest night there remains a glow. Sometimes it takes a while for the eyes to accustom to the dark and see it. A most heart felt write
Matthew, this carries real weight without collapsing under it. The restraint makes it stronger. It sits in the dark honestly…then allows that final thread of morning to breathe. That closing couplet doesn’t shout hope…it steadies it. Beautifully handled. 🌹🖤🙏🕯️🐦⬛
Poetry is not a competition,but honestly this was the best self reflection poem i’ve seen in a while!
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