Restless Whispers

In the quietude of night, my sanctuary whispers,

Walls echo with the hum of a world awake,

Each shadow flickers with a tale untold,

In the safety of my chamber, I am but a witness

To the distant drum of hearts in discord.

Restless, the sheets wrap around uneasy dreams,

Where the question lingers, unvoiced but heard:

"Has another soul drifted away on the tide of turmoil?"

A query that tugs at the fringes of my slumber,

Tying me to the unseen, the unknown, the unforgotten.

The night air carries the weight of whispered fears,

Across oceans, over mountains, beneath starlit skies,

Reaching me in my haven, unsettling the calm.

It feels a breach, a silent scream from afar,

A connection bound by the threads of human essence.

I stir, restless, in the cocoon of my bed,

Comfort collides with the discomfort of empathy.

How can one heart rest when others bleed?

How can peace find a place where sorrows seed?

This paradox plays out in the theatre of night.

Yet, with each dawn, the questions do not fade,

Merely pause, as the sun stretches over landscapes—

Both scarred and unscathed.

And I rise, carrying the remnants of night,

The burden of knowledge, the balm of being.

In the quiet light, I gather strength,

For the nights are long, and the world, vast.

But in this connection—this painful, precious thread—

Lies the power to persevere, to bear witness,

To hold the space between peace and unrest.