It is not a storm,
but a hundred whispering winds,
that scream softly.
A drop on burning skin,
a mess in the mirror of the day
The eyes speak in pain,
not in tears.
You see a sea of paper,
from moisture, from layers -
a chaos without a centre.
The table that wants to be empty,
bears the burden of the days.
The bed, an altar of tiredness,
wrapped in rings, rolls,
and the question:
"Where did it all start?"
The silence in your ear,
it screams louder than any sound.
Patience, a foreign word.
But between all this -
a smile.
Or something that looks like one.
Because somewhere,
behind the fog of things and thoughts,
is another room,
which only courage can enter.
