I walk alone among the red roses that grow untamed,
their petals holding secrets only I can hear.
The night leans close to me,
whispering reminders of who I am.
I seek no company; the darkness understands me.
Every shadow that brushes past feels like an ancient story,
and I answer with my silence,
beautiful, solitary, and eternal,
a red sigh that refuses to fade.
And still, even solitude has its pulse not loud, not demanding, but steady enough to remind the night it is not empty.
The roses do not ask why you walk among them.
They simply open, as if recognizing something in your stillness that mirrors their own becoming.
There is a language the world forgets to teach one spoken between absence and presence, between what is seen and what is only felt at the edge of awareness.
And you learn it without instruction.
In the way wind moves through stems without breaking them.
In the way darkness does not oppose light here, but folds around it like a secret kept too long.
You begin to understand that being alone is not the same as being erased.
It can be a form of witnessing the self standing quietly in front of everything it has survived, no longer asking to be anything else.
And in that quiet vastness, something softens without surrendering.
Not loneliness. Not escape.
But a presence so subtle it feels almost like belonging to the night itself.
@NewGirlDark
-
Autor:
NewGirlDark (Seudónimo) (
Offline) - Publicado: 11 de febrero de 2026 a las 08:58
- Comentario del autor sobre el poema: "Among shadows and whispers, I find my voice; the night watches me, and I burn in silence."
- Categoría: Gótico
- Lecturas: 30
- Usuarios favoritos de este poema: Mauro Enrique Lopez Z., Poesía Herética, El Hombre de la Rosa, JoseAn100, Tommy Duque
- En colecciones: Poems.
Offline)
Comentarios1
Friend,
This is a beautifully introspective and haunting piece. Your words evoke a sense of quiet strength—solitude not as loneliness, but as sacred communion with the unseen. The imagery of untamed roses and whispered shadows paints a world where silence speaks volumes, and identity is rooted in something deep, eternal, and poetic. A red sigh, indeed—soft, defiant, unforgettable.
Thank you for writing,
-LOURDES
Poets we are indeed...
Thank you, Lourdes.
Your words felt like a gentle echo inside the same garden I wrote from. It means more than I can say to know the silence and shadows were heard as they were meant to be — not empty, but alive.
We meet, perhaps, in that unseen place where solitude becomes language.
Grateful to share this space with another soul who listens beyond the visible.
— Annie
Thank you, Annie,
Beautifully spoken words.
Continue with the writing; you do it well.
-LOURDES
Poets we are indeed...
Para poder comentar y calificar este poema, debes estar registrad@. Regístrate aquí o si ya estás registrad@, logueate aquí.