Unseen Stories

I see him on the shore,
a solitary figure etched against the tide,
his face a map of silent tales,
eyes like distant lighthouses,
guiding me through imagined chapters
of his life.
His skin, weathered leather,
speaks of salt and sun,
a fisherman, perhaps,
braving the sea's vast mouth each dawn,
returning with the ocean's bounty,
whispering stories to the stars.
Or maybe he's a king
in an unseen castle,
powerful and alone,
a soul misunderstood,
his fortress built from whispers and walls,
the waves his only companions,
their eternal song a comfort.
Each line on his face,
a passage through time,
a symphony of struggle and strength,
resilience carved by relentless tides,
a life lived on the edge of the horizon.
As I watch, the question forms,
drifting like a lone shell on the sand -
how many stories do we miss,
in the silence of strangers,
their lives brushed by our gaze,
yet never truly seen?
What tales would unfold,
if we paused to listen?