What Is It?
It sits on the table,
shapeless as a rumor,
weightless as a debt unpaid.
You ask, what is it?
and the question itself
becomes the answer’s disguise.
Is it the itch behind the eye,
the word you almost spoke,
the silence that arrived
before the door could close?
Is it hunger,
or the memory of hunger?
Is it joy, or the echo
of joy rehearsed?
The realist shrugs: it is nothing,
a trick of light, a shadow
without a body.
The sentimentalist insists:
it is everything,
the pulse beneath the floorboards,
the ghost that keeps the chair warm.
And so we circle,
naming, un‑naming,
until the question itself
becomes the only thing we trust.
What is it? It is the asking—
the restless hinge
that keeps the door from rusting.
.
.
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Author:
crypticbard (Pseudonym) (
Offline) - Published: February 16th, 2026 05:08
- Category: Unclassified
- Views: 4
- Users favorite of this poem: sorenbarrett, Friendship
Offline)
Comments2
It is the poeticism itself in the wording, the images and metaphor that make this one a fave.
Glad of it, thanks dear Soren🕊️🙏🏻
Nicely written. Your poem revolves around the elusive nature of understanding and meaning. It explores the complexities of existence, perception, and human emotion, suggesting that the act of questioning is as significant as any answer one might seek
Quite so dear Friendship 🕊️🙏🏻
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