There is a shadow that listens closely,
its ears pressed against the walls of language,
where thoughts trickle like water through cracks
and questions echo louder than answers can fill.
The skyline tightens with the weight of inquiry,
a stretched canvas waiting for the next imprint,
and yet, the poet walks barefoot on its edge,
smelling rain in the air before it speaks.
Syllables, half-shattered, rise from the riverbed,
their shapes amorphous but steady with intent.
The difficult fractures of lives unnamed
find themselves gathered in a line of verse.
Does this answer suffice? The page whispers,
its mouth dusty and expectant, bare of teeth.
The simplicity of ink becomes a cloak of riddles,
answering nothing, yet holding everything still.
Above, the vastness does not explain its weight,
and silence twitches like a thread unraveling.
But poetry steps in with unclean hands,
molding what can't be said into what remains.
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Author:
gray0328 (
Offline) - Published: March 15th, 2026 03:46
- Category: Unclassified
- Views: 13
- Users favorite of this poem: sorenbarrett, Efrain Cajar
Offline)
Comments3
Lovely Gray your wording so poetic gets the fave in this poem
Thank You Soren
You are most welcome Gray
TREMENDOUS WORK.
Thank You brother
This piece is excellent. I love your words about poetry.
Meaningful and insightful.
Blessings to you, Katie
Thank You Katie I appreciate your feedback and support
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