To be Unheard

amid the laughter of children

and the hum of everyday life,

they wander, lost spirits,

carrying the weight of scars,

etched deep in fur and skin.

With eyes like puddles of rain,

they search for kindness

in a world that often turns away,

seeking solace beneath the shadows,

beneath the weary benches

where tired souls sit,

their hearts oblivious

to the silent cries of those

who roam without a name.

Once, they were cuddled,

wrapped in soft, warm arms,

sheltered from the storms

that now rage within them—

a forgotten promise of love

trampled beneath the feet

of those who moved on,

leaving echoes in the alleys

and the murmurs of despair.

Each night, they curl upon themselves,

a shiver, a whisper of hope,

dreaming of a home,

of gentle hands and soft whispers,

the warmth of a steady heartbeat,

and the simple act of being seen,

but the stars above are cold,

and the moon hangs heavy with loneliness.

With every passing car,

a fleeting glimpse of lives that could have been,

muffled barks and hopeful howls,

yet all are drowned in the noise,

the indifference of those who just drive by,

eyes fixed ahead,

lost in their own battles,

while the world continues to spin,

the stray hearts left behind,

forgotten tales of resilience,

woven into the fabric of the night.

But even in their struggling shadows,

there exists a spirit, a flicker,

an unyielding desire to connect,

to trust, once more,

to find warmth in the kindness of strangers,

who sometimes pause,

with a gentle hand, a morsel of compassion,

and for a heartbeat,

the earth breathes a little lighter.

Yet tomorrow will come,

and with it the same indifference,

the same bustling crowd,

the same frantic pace,

as they weave their stories

through the cracks in the pavement,

among the discarded dreams of the day,

searching for a sliver of love,

a patch of sunlight,

a touch that doesn’t shy away.

What of the hearts that ask for nothing more

than a moment’s grace?

What of the souls that linger,

drenched in the weight of neglect,

in the silent ache of compassion denied?

Let us not forget

the stray lives entwined with our own,

for in their pain lies the mirror,

the reflection of a world

that dances blind to the suffering,

that forgets the warmth of each heartbeat,

and the promise that we are all woven

into this fragile tapestry of existence.

May we learn to pause,

to bend down and see the world

through their weary eyes,

to share a crumb,

to whisper a name,

to carve a space

for love in the most unexpected places,

where once there was only loneliness,

and make a promise to remember

that every stray is a story,

and every story deserves to be heard,

for in the echoes of their pain,

we may find our humanity.