I come from silence,
Not the golden kind.
With bruises that withheld,
The love behind.
My language is quiet,
Like smile and scream.
Present yet absent,
And yet I dream.
I hide behind words,
A solemn in night.
Broken but not done,
Shimmering so bright.
I am fragile, broken,
Like a glass of art.
Still chasing fire,
My withered heart.
Through every crack,
I write my name.
Always in the shadows,
But never the same.