Tears of the Silenced by Carol Anne Johnson

 

Image / Italo Melo

Tears of the Silenced

 

In the halls where daylight falters,

Shadows collect like memories,

Each one a testament, a whisper,

Of those whose voices never soared—

Quiet as moths against glass,

Soft as rain on a midnight street.

Beneath the gentle hush of morning,

The world’s machinery groans on,

Unmindful of the silent plea

Pressed between the pages of routine.

There, sorrow weaves its silver thread

Through hearts left waiting, unheard.

I. The Gathering Silence

We gather in muted corners,

A congregation of unsaid words,

Our eyes laden with stories

No wind dares sweep away.

We are the leftover notes of a song

Written in a language of longing—

A tapestry of sighs,

Embroidered with invisible pain.

The tears of the silenced fall unseen,

Not for want of sorrow,

But for want of a witness.

They glisten in the dark,

Little lanterns of truth

That burn beneath the surface,

Illuminating what cannot

Be spoken aloud.

II. The Memory of Sound

Once, the world was thunderous—

A cascade of laughter,

A torrent of argument,

A river of shared dreams.

But silence is a patient sculptor;

It chisels away at the edges

Of what might have been,

Leaving only the outline

Of a voice.

In the stillness,

Memory becomes a sanctuary.

We nestle in the soft folds

Of remembered words,

Their meaning unspoiled

By the world’s indifference,

Their echoes a gentle balm

For bruised spirits.

III. The Weight of Unsaid Things

There are words that ache to be spoken—

Truths as fragile as spring petals,

Grievances heavy as autumn stones,

Hope as bright as a new dawn.

Yet the silenced bear the weight

Of unuttered confession,

Shoulders bowed beneath

The burden of unshared grace.

We watch the world move on,

Its promises like distant bells

Ringing in some far-off place

Where courage blooms more freely.

Our own resolve is a quiet thing,

More enduring for its restraint,

More noble for its invisibility.

IV. A Landscape of Hidden Tears

The tears of the silenced seep into the soil,

Nourishing dreams that sleep beneath the surface.

They do not flood the fields,

Nor carve valleys in their grief.

Instead, they mingle with the roots

Of secret gardens,

Where wildflowers grow unbidden

From sorrow’s fertile ground.

Here, in this hidden landscape,

A thousand voices murmur

Among the petals and the leaves.

Their stories twist skyward

With silent elegance,

Painting the dawn with hope

That refuses to be quelled.

V. When Silence Breaks

There comes a day when silence shatters—

When the world briefly remembers

To listen for the quiet ones.

Their tears, collected like dew,

Sparkle on the edge of sunlight,

A prism refracting dignity

Long denied.

In the clarity of morning,

A single voice rises

From the hush.

It trembles with memory,

With pain, with healing,

And the world, at last,

Pauses in its ceaseless motion

To hear the truth

That patience has forged

And solitude has refined.

VI. The Legacy of the Silenced

The silenced do not vanish

Simply because they are unheard.

Their legacy endures

In the kindness of strangers,

In the resilience of the wounded,

In the artistry of the unacknowledged,

And the wisdom of the overlooked.

Every tear is a seed

That waits for gentle rain—

A promise that, one day,

The world might learn to listen

With eyes as open as the sky

And hearts as deep as the sea.

VII. Epilogue: A Prayer for Courage

Let us speak for those who cannot,

Let us bear witness to their truth.

Let our own voices be lanterns,

Guiding the lost through midnight halls.

For in the tears of the silenced

Lies a reservoir of strength—

A power that endures

Beyond despair and indifference.

May the world one day

Turn its gaze to the quiet

And find, shining through

The veil of hush,

The indomitable light

Of every soul

Whoever wept unseen.

---

Slowly, patiently,

The tears of the silenced

Shape rivers beneath stone,

Carving passageways

For hope to flow.

And though silence may linger,

Its reign is never absolute—

For in the end,

Even the quietest voice

Can awaken the dawn.

 

© Carol Anne Johnson

Carol Anne Johnson is in her mid-40s. She is blind and was diagnosed with dissociative identity disorder and complex PTSD. She is also a survivor of child abuse. She enjoys writing poetry and reading, walking, and volunteering. You can follow her on her blog, http://therapybits.com/.

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