Cowards wear a cloak of empty syllables,
hollow echoes that never touch the heart.
Words without thought, without feeling, without deed-
mere shadows drifting on a wind that never stirs.
Cowards hide behind a jargon‑filled veil,
talk of worlds they cannot name,
spins stories stitched from phantom thread,
and never hear the tremor of their own soul.
Cowards’ ears are closed to the quiet pulse inside
and tuned only to the clamor of their ego.
Depth eludes the cowards; the ocean’s surface is all they see,
while the tide of truth pulls them under.
Games become their compass, and others-
the puppeteers of their fragile stage.
Cowards don the mask of empathy, a borrowed kindness,
only to turn away when the mirror cracks.
Infatuation is their drug, a fleeting high
that never fills the hollow they cradle.
Love, real and raw, slips through their trembling fingers,
for fear has shackled the very beating of their own heart.
And in the quietest hours, when night draws its veil,
the cowards still refuses to meet the eyes of themselves.