PostPoems Be Artistic. Be Creative. Be Inspired!

In the hush between heartbeats,

love moves without applause.

It does not demand, nor boast,

but breathes gently through the ordinary,

the smoothing of a sheet,

the soft clang of a spoon in a bowl,

the warmth of food prepared with care.

To serve is not to shrink,

but to expand,

to let compassion pour through your hands

like warm water over cool stone.

It is the silent prayer of presence,

the meeting of souls through simple acts,

where humility becomes holiness.

Real love does not seek a throne.

It kneels beside, not below.

It rubs the aching shoulders,

listens without fixing,

and gives without keeping score.

Two hearts in quiet rhythm,

each tending to the other’s light.

This is the still power of devotion,

not grand gestures,

but the sacred everyday:

a bed made, a meal shared,

a back soothed by knowing hands.

For when we serve in love,

we are not losing ourselves,

we are finding the Divine within us both.

Beneath the thunder of our words,

a softer voice lies trembling,

not anger, but ache,

not fire, but the faint glow

of a heart wanting to be seen.

Each clash, a coded psalm,

a plea wearing armour,

the soul’s shy hand reaching out

through the smoke of misunderstanding.

We do not battle to win,

we battle to be held.

What sounds like conflict

is the sound of loneliness breaking open,

of love knocking against its own walls,

of yearning dressed in defiance.

So let us listen

not to the sharpness of tongues,

but to the hush between them,

where the true words live:

choose me,

consider me,

understand me,

accept me.

For every argument is a secret altar,

and beneath it burns

the quiet, stubborn fire

of our longing to belong.

The cosmos breathes through your silken thread,

A shimmer stitched where starlight treads,

Each breath you take, a hush, a spark,

A song begun within the dark.

You walk, a lantern born of flame,

Yet hold no boast, nor cry your name;

The hush of galaxies leans in,

To hear your soul’s light stir the wind.

You are not small, though stars are grand,

You are the pulse in the sky’s own hand.

A symphony that dares to rise,

From silence, into sacred skies.

Let morning crown your brow with fire,

And let your gaze the heavens inspire,

For God in shadow, dust, and hue,

Finds voice and rhythm, here, in you.