the reckoning of verse

 

 

Words do not wait. 

They press against silence, 

strain against the skin of unspoken 

thought, demanding release.

 

Time does not permit softness. 

It carves urgency into bone, 

   into pulse,

                into breath, 

         leaving no room for hesitation.

 

Poetry often arrives unbidden, 

clothed in necessity-

a force neither gentle 

nor forgiving, only

what must be said, 

and what refuses to be ignored.

 

It does not settle. 

It does not console. 

It disturbs, disrupts, dismantles, 

remakes the world beneath its weight.

 

And when it has done its work— 

when the ink has soaked through skin, 

when the rhythm has seized the heart— 

it is no longer a thing created, 

                         but a thing that owns you.

 

 

 

 

.