Her Unseen Tears

Lying on her bedsheets,
surrounded by dear ones,
alone in her thoughts and those blacked-out dreams,
she sheds her tears on her imagination,
she paints all of life, and her unseen fear,
singing the tale of her unseen tears.
Apology is not her need, nor is sympathy,
She is neither lost, nor wants to be found,
she does not need someone, she needs the only one —
someone who does the same for her, like she does for all the dear ones.
She is competent, she is dreadful, a mystery above all,
one who hides all her tears, and tries to stay strong,
stable, quiet and unseen from all,
surrounded by dear ones,
alone in her thoughts and those blacked-out dreams.
Even the words lack the description of her nature and being,
so does the depth of the ocean lack its distance,
of the deeper she has known about —
maybe even the light has not travelled that far,
of the far she has sacrificed.
She sits alone, renders all in her, lets it go;
the only thing that has been there with her,
is her old bedsheets, is her old bedsheets.

Recovered from my old blog (2020–2021) via the Wayback Machine.