In the quiet of a page, unnamed,
Words wander free, no title claimed.
They weave through shadows, soft and slight,
A fleeting thought in endless night.
No label binds their whispered call,
They rise, they drift, they gently fall.
In silence, truth begins to bloom,
Untitled, yet they fill the room.
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Author:
Matthew R. Callies (
Offline) - Published: June 9th, 2025 00:46
- Category: Unclassified
- Views: 19
- Users favorite of this poem: Poetic Licence
Offline)
Comments3
This seems the destiny of a poet where words wander and meaning gently settles like the dust . Nicely written
Good write M.
A sense of a poet's not night with pen in hand and the mind drifting, until the thoughts end up on the paper, enjoyed the read
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