Heart Speaks What Lips Can Not

When words have fled the ruined room,

and silence sits like dust on bone,

the eyes become the final bloom

of all the grief the heart has known.

They gather up what speech cannot,

the shattered ache, the nameless bruise;

they weep for every broken thought

the tongue no longer dares to use.

For when the soul has been struck deep,

and language fails beneath the weight,

the tears will rise instead of sleep,

and fall like rain that cannot wait.

They do not ask to be explained;

they only know the wound is real.

And in their shining, salt and stained,

they speak the things we cannot feel.

So let them cry. Let sorrow show

its quiet truth in silver streams.

For sometimes all the heart can know

is how to weep the shape of dreams.