hello poetry
Beneath the rustling of an unwritten page,
a quiver begins—soft as rain on glass.
Words lean toward each other,
testing the air between syllables,
like strangers exchanging glances
before they dare to speak.
Here, the ink is not just ink—
it is breath, the slow unfurling of a thought
that has waited years for its own voice.
Every line a bridge, every pause a doorway.
And when the poem finds you,
it does not knock—
it slips into your chest,
settles beside your heartbeat,
and ripples outward from it.
.
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Author:
crypticbard (Pseudonym) (
Offline) - Published: November 17th, 2025 05:12
- Category: Unclassified
- Views: 3
- Users favorite of this poem: Caring dove
Offline)
Comments1
A fine write A. it's my saying again 'I never knew there was so much to (x), but I know now!' and in this case 'x' being 'writing a poem!' Glad you rustled those pages and got your quill out to write. Quill? Well, I am millions of years old, with Goldfinch too, so I say. heehee. He won't be insulted by saying we're both very old.
Keep quilling! 🪶🙏🏻🕊️
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