Blank Verse Poems Poem by ashok jadhav

1. The Weight of Time
Time does not strike with sudden cruelty,
It settles softly on the living heart.
A moment leans upon another moment,
And what was light grows heavy without sound.
We walk within its shadow unaware,
Calling it habit, age, or simple fate.
Yet every breath is shaped by what has passed,
Each step a quiet answer to before.
We do not lose our days in grand collapse;
They thin, like ink erased by careful hands.
At last we turn and see the narrowing road,
And know the cost of all we failed to keep.
2. The Question of Choice
I tell myself the path was always fixed,
That choice was only theater for hope.
Yet still my hand hesitates in the air,
As if the future listens for my touch.
If fate commands, why does the heart rebel?
If freedom reigns, why fear the final act?
Between the push of cause and pull of will
I stand, a witness to my own delay.
Perhaps the truth lives in the act itself:
We choose, and choice creates the law we serve.
3. Silence as Answer
I waited long for words to come from heaven,
For signs arranged with clarity and force.
Instead, the sky remained a steady blue,
The earth repeated patterns without pause.
At first the silence felt like harsh neglect,
A door closed firmly on my asking mind.
But slowly I perceived another voice
Within the hush that no command could fill.
The world does not explain itself to us;
It offers space in which we must respond.
And silence, then, is not the lack of truth,
But room enough to learn how to become.
4. The Self Remembered
I am not who I was when I began,
Nor wholly what I imagine ahead.
I walk composed of fragments I once lived,
Each memory a weight or point of light.
Some days I carry shame like second skin;
Some days I borrow strength from former joy.
The self is not a statue carved in stone,
But water shaped by banks it never sees.
To know oneself is not to stand still firm,
But move with care through what one has been made.
5. Acceptance
There comes a moment quiet as snowfall
When struggle loosens its relentless grip.
The mind, long trained to sharpen every loss,
Releases its demand for final sense.
What cannot change no longer wounds the soul,
But finds its place among the settled things.
This is not weakness, nor the death of hope,
But wisdom earned by standing long in pain.
To accept is not to bow before defeat;
It is to stand without the need to fight.