When The Inner Heart Falls Silent Poem by Mystic Qalandar

The heart is no mere fist of flesh,
No clock that swings within the chest's dark nook.

That is not the sacred core
Where insight dawns and intention burns,
Where awareness breathes its silent proof,
And knowing pours without a sound.

The body's pump drives its crimson tide,
Yet here, within this living mirror,
Truth makes its dwelling.
Machines are sewn to lengthen a thin thread,
Yet love's clear spring, the tremor of holy awe,
The cleansing blaze of raw remorse,
The soul's wakeful fire—
No circuit can ignite that inward flame.

Let the flesh-heart fail; spare parts may mend.
But the spirit-heart—once stilled—
No surgeon's hand can ever reach,
No borrowed art restore a mirror eaten through by rust.
Then, whether real or false, the man is gone—
Severed from the Light, exiled from grace.

This is no satire, but a truth held steady in a cold lens:
We fashion hearts of craft and steel
While the true heart dims.
Souls lose their north, pilgrims drift unmoored,
And every seeker of the Light, untended,
Fades quietly into gray.

— December,23,2025