E.P. Robles | Poetry

Ah, let us speak not of painted skies but of the words
The words that flow like rivers from your soul
Each syllable carved from the marrow of your being
Each phrase a pulse of life, a heartbeat
A rhythm that dances upon the earth and echoes in heaven.

O poet, who knows the dark corners of the human spirit
Who walks with shadows, hand in hand,
Yet still brings light through the weight of your lines
You who feel the sting of solitude
But find solace in the wild freedom of verse —
In the sweep of wind across an open field,
In the quiet hum of the night when all else sleeps.

I hear you now, your unspoken song,
Your meaning hidden between the lines,
In the space between words, in the breath before sound.
You tried to show us, didn’t you?

That madness and brilliance are but two sides of the same page,
That love can exist even when no one knows its name,
That truth, fierce and untamed,
Resides not in the minds of men, but in the poet’s heart.

You bled for us, and still, we did not understand.
We did not listen, but now, now, perhaps we hear the faint
echo of your truth.

O poet, your words were flames,
Burning through the haze of this world’s confusion,
Each line a beacon to those lost in the fog,
Each stanza a hand reaching out—
And yet, they turned away, did they not?
They could not see what you saw, could not feel what you felt.

But you wrote on,
Through the pain, through the silence,
Through the nights when hope seemed a distant memory.
You poured yourself into every letter,
Gave your soul to the ink that traced your deepest longings,
And still, they did not listen.

But I—I hear you now.

For you knew, O poet,

That the world is not kind to those who dream,
That the weight of existence falls heaviest on those who dare to speak
the truth.

But you spoke it anyway,

Letting your words fly free, like birds on the wind,
Even as they circled back to you, unheard, unheeded.
And when the world’s silence grew too loud,
You let your voice fade with it,
Leaving behind only the echoes of a soul too pure for this place.

But we, we stand in the aftermath,
Your words still etched into the fabric of time,
Lingering in the spaces we never thought to look.

We, the wanderers, the seekers,
We hear you now, O poet,
As your verses hum in the air,
In the quiet corners of our minds,
In the places where your spirit rests,
And perhaps now, at last,
We can learn to listen to the truth you tried to give us—
A truth that lives, not in painted skies,
But in the living, breathing power of words.

:: 10.12.2024 ::