I speak now for the man
who walks through the fire in silence,
whose smile is a folded map
he can no longer read.
He wakes with the world pressing
its grey lips to his chest,
a weight of invisible stone,
and still,
he ties his laces.
He steps forward into the noise
as if nothing is broken,
as if the storm
is not building inside him
like a river with no mouth.
Oh brother,
you who carry your sadness
as quietly as a knife tucked in your coat—
what did they steal from you
when they taught you
to hide your pain
in the caverns of your bones?
You are a man, they said.
A wall,
a roof,
a silence.
But not a flame,
not a sob,
not a question.
And so you built your fortress
with hands that trembled,
with breath that forgot its rhythm,
with a heart
cracked open
but unseen.
This ode is for the man
whose tears are not trusted,
whose voice was trained
to sing only of strength.
For the man
who shakes at midnight
but lies still in the bed
so no one will know
the sea is rising inside him.
You are not weak.
You are not alone.
You are a son
of the same earth
that bore the poets,
the warriors,
and the wounded birds.
Your pain does not shame you.
It is the truth
that others have hidden,
but you
have held.
Let the wind enter your lungs.
Let the silence break open
like ripe fruit.
Let your voice be a hammer
that builds
not destroys.
Speak, man of quiet battle,
even if your voice
arrives in pieces.
Even if your words
are only a whisper
lost in the trees—
speak.
And know that someone
has heard you.
And someone
loves you still.
Broken Author 