A hush beneath the silver skie

Beneath the hush of silver skies, Where stars are wounds that never close, A whisper stirs, then slowly dies, A truth the midnight air bestows. The petals bloom, then drift away, Like memories we cannot hold, A single tear keeps time with day, For stories lost and love grown cold. A wilted rose, a whispered name, The breath before the truth withdraws, Their silence fuels a sacred flame That flickers where the stillness gnaws. What is the soul but stitched regret, A tapestry of might-have-beens? We chase the stars and just forget They mirror ache beneath our skins. Yet in the hush, a truth remains, That even pain is proof of love; Each quiet loss, each soft refrain, Is something the stars are dreaming of. So let the dark wrap close and kind, A lullaby for aching minds, For even in the wounds we hide, A quiet, tender grace still shines. The moon feels hollow, bruised, and slow, Yet wears her light like hope begun. And even those who fall too low Are kissed, sometimes, by distant sun.