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.

Its panorama blooms not on paper,
but in the vivid window of the reader’s imagination.
Each line stretches like sunlit paths,
inviting footsteps into uncharted journeys.

The poet leaves faint breadcrumbs—
enough to guide, but never to tether.
Then comes the twist:

at this poem’s end lies not silence,
but the restless stirrings of another,
and perhaps many more, jostling to be born.

Somewhere, an invisible ink takes form,
its words breathing, its rhythms coiled,
waiting for the reader to turn
and catch them in their unfolding.