There is always a poem waiting—
an understudy, breathless in the wings,
shadowed by today’s centre stage,
its lines trembling, yearning to be heard.
This poem, however, holds its ground.
It stands, distinct as a fingerprint,
etched with the soul of its unwritten forbears—
the lived and the whispered, but never fully spoken.
......
A soul’s cry, released in words—
chosen, picked, woven in quiet longing.
And there, in articulation, beauty finds its form...
The soul, unbound, bridges a gap, touching both heart and mind.
A soul’s cry, released in words—
chosen, picked, woven in quiet longing.
And there, in articulation, beauty finds its form...
The soul, unbound, bridges a gap, touching both heart and mind.
There is always a poem waiting—
an understudy, breathless in the wings,
shadowed by today’s centre stage,
its lines trembling, yearning to be heard.
This poem, however, holds its ground.
It stands, distinct as a fingerprint,
etched with the soul of its unwritten forbears—
the lived and the whispered, but never fully spoken.
......