I Shrunk To A Point Poem by The voice of silence .

I shrank to a point — to dust, to fracture,
Like a clenched scream with no right to sound.
Inside — not a body, but a riot,
Where pain plays hide-and-seek with torment.

On my skin — dirt, the traces of war
I wage without purpose.
My enemies — they are within,
And each evening they strike harder.

Bent into shadow, clutching my skull,
I am neither alive nor ash.
I have learned to be loss itself
And live like a whisper in dead ends.

Fate does not write me an oath,
I am both my own enemy and judge.
But maybe tomorrow… in this slush
Light will pour through. Just a drop. Perhaps.