I stand alone in this fleeting now,
Pen in hand and furrowed brow.
These words take shape, then set me free—
The one who writes slips quietly.
Time, that thief, moves ever on,
Stealing dawn, then dusk—then gone.
And here I wait, not lost, but tied,
To dreams the future hides inside.
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Author:
Mottakeenur Rehman (
Offline) - Published: June 20th, 2025 03:14
- Comment from author about the poem: ..like standing in evening light, feeling the past fading, but still believing the future holds meaning...
- Category: Unclassified
- Views: 25
- Users favorite of this poem: Soman Ragavan, RSM0812
Offline)
Comments3
Very nice Mottakeenur a very abstract concept put in poetic words. Most lovely
Thank you so much friend❤️🙏❤️
The poem's narrator appears to exist in the liminal space between inspiration and disappearance—“the one who writes slips quietly” is such an elegant way to describe the ego dissolving into the act of creation. It’s not despairing, but meditative, even hopeful. There’s comfort in the act of waiting, “not lost, but tied / To dreams the future hides inside. This poem doesn’t cry out for answers but it invites stillness, reflection, a shared silence between writer and reader. Like a page that holds more than ink: it holds presence. 🕊️🙏🏻
Your words unravel the silence I hoped to weave—thank you for reading so deeply, for finding the quietude between the lines. It’s a gift when someone hears not just the poem, but the unsaid space around it, where the writer dissolves and the reader begins. You’ve mirrored back the stillness I was reaching for, and that shared presence is what makes writing sacred. Gratitude, for this meeting of minds. 🖋️✨
A meeting that is quite a holy grail between both parties. Most welcome 🙏🏻🕊️
Happy to wait as the future has potential, nicely expressed and written, enjoyed the read
Thank you so much friend🙏❤️🙏
You are very welcome
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