The Quiet Man

In the hush of crowded rooms, he stands unseen, A shadow cast by words he's never keen To let escape his lips, a silent stream, His thoughts, a hidden world, a whispered dream.

His eyes, they speak in volumes, deep and vast, A universe of stories held amassed, Of laughter heard in raindrops' gentle chime, Of wisdom gleaned from starlight's silvered rhyme.

His hands, they paint in gestures soft and slow, Emotions' dance where spoken words don't flow, A gentle touch, a knowing, steady grip, More eloquent than words his lips might trip.

His silence isn't emptiness, but grace, A space for others' voices to find place, A canvas bare for listening's keen art, To capture whispers of the beating heart.

So judge him not by words he holds unsung, For in his quietude, a soul takes wing, A symphony of silence, rich and bright, A world unveiled in the absence of sound's light.