poets are the quiet architects
of rooms built inside our ribs
their pen a delicate chisel shaping
the weight we carry into words
poems are bridges made of breath
spanning the distance between us
they hold the ache tenderly like
a mother holds her sleeping child
a poet’s voice is not their own
it is the raw echo within you
speaking the secrets you’ve buried
beneath years of quiet silences
poems exist so we do not forget
that to feel is to be alive again
and in their rhythm we find refuge
a home within ourselves—at last
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Author:
gray0328 (
Offline) - Published: July 8th, 2025 10:19
- Category: Unclassified
- Views: 21
- Users favorite of this poem: Cheeky Missy, sorenbarrett
Offline)
Comments3
If only this delicate beauty, like Atlas bearing the world upon his shoulder, could be posted in all halls of learning to enlighten the ignorant and open the door to pastures fewer know than should. Gorgeously rendered with excellent imagery and a wonderful poignancy, thank you for sharing.
Thank you very much Missy I appreciate your kind feedback
My pleasure, you're very welcome.
Well put Gray a beautiful poem of poems. A fave
A lot of truth in your lines. Good one.
Thanks Kevin for sharing your heartfelt feedback
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