Died Of A Broken Heart Poem by Asrar Bine Yaqoob

There was no visible wound in need of healing.
No sign of chaos
making its way as a headline.

It was quieter than that -
something tiptoeing through corridors,
stripped of laughter,
invading rooms
infested with polite silence.

Therapists named it stress.
Friends called it a phase.
But what was it?

It was grief.

Three cursed words.
A future missed,
and the whole architecture of his
dreams came crumbling down.

No eruption.
No rage.
No hope.
Just decay.

He died
of a broken heart.