The uneasy hum begins long before the crash,
a rustling in the corners of the mind.
What ifs grow roots, vines curling inward,
cradling my breath, squeezing too tight.
Every creek of the floor feels sinister,
every missed phone call a silent volcano.
I build catastrophes with trembling hands,
paint them vivid, let them loom enormous.
But then the storm arrives, rain on windows
like a thousand quiet apologies: we're gentler
than you imagined. Even the thunder says,
I’ve never been a monster, only loud.
And I think of all my worries, my runaway
trains that never derailed, just slowed,
how my chest keeps forgetting to trust
this: the fear lies sharper than the blade.
The darkened corners hold no beasts,
just dust and echoes that mean no harm.
I light a candle, warm in my grip,
its glow whispering, look—we were only shadows.
-
Author:
gray0328 (
Offline) - Published: May 27th, 2026 11:07
- Category: Unclassified
- Views: 10
Offline)
Comments1
In so many ways we are but shadows that come and go. A most interesting poem that seems a bit surreal while speaking in metaphor. Well done
Thank You Soren. The fear is often times more powerful than the thing we fear
You are most welcome Gray indeed it is
To be able to comment and rate this poem, you must be registered. Register here or if you are already registered, login here.