Evening's Quiet Guest

It is the dust that settles on the sill,
The fading echo of a distant train,
The empty chair that time cannot refill,
The slow, soft falling of the autumn rain.
A shade that lingers when the sun has gone.

It is the book whose pages are not turned,
The untold story in a weathered face,
The quiet lesson that is never learned,
The untouched stillness of a fireplace.
A hollow where the light once danced at dawn.

It is the weight of footsteps in the hall,
The muted color of a weathered stone,
The understanding that this grief is all,
A silent burden carried on one’s own.
A taste of ash where sweetness once was drawn.

It is the city wrapped in evening's grey,
A thousand windows holding secret thought,
The things we meant but never learned to say,
The silent battle that is never fought.
A thread unraveled from the fabric, worn.

It is not pain that sharpens like a knife,
But something deeper, older, and more slow—
The companion of a contemplative life,
The tender bruise no one is meant to know.
A gentle tide that pulls us to be still.

Copyright © 2026 Oguz Kaan Öcal

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