The tongue, a cage, the heart a frantic bird,
With songs unsung, a melody unheard.
A flock of feelings flutter, trapped inside,
Where silent storms and churning currents ride.

The words remain, a phantom on the breath,
A weighty burden, harbinger of death.
Not death of body, but a soul's slow fade,
By threads of silence, tightly, subtly frayed.

Each unsaid phrase, a splinter in the skin,
A lingering ache, where joy once settled in.
The unspoken hangs, a heavy, humid shroud,
A suffocating presence, crying aloud.

And in the echo of the empty air,
A hollow resonance, beyond compare.
The pain remains, a testament so clear,
To what was held, and locked away in fear.

So let the silence scream its mournful plea,
A story etched in raw fragility.
For in the absence, truth begins to bloom,
A painful flower, born within the tomb
Of words left dormant, and a love consumed.