Epitaph of the Silent Echoes
by Dawg
In grave silence, where the ancient stones exhale,
the truth’s gently spun–like thread, like breath, like bone–
whispers cling to air where the daylight fails,
ghost stories woven from sorrow alone.
No cry louder than the sun before it falls,
no courage greater than the quiet of the tomb,
here, in the hush where memory recalls,
strength ripens slowly, banishing the gloom.
In the quiet dark, the stories are spun,
echoes of fortitude, stubborn and unseen–
in this mute cathedral, victories are won
by those who persist where others have been.
Unseen courage, a tale not for show,
unheard resolve in the marrow and the mind–
where the living seldom linger, the lost know
that what’s left unsaid is not left behind.