an unread poem
is unwritten poetry —
ink still dreaming in the vein,
a slow current beneath the skin
where no light has yet entered.

 

Pages breathe in the dark,
their margins uncreased
by any gaze,
their fibres holding the faint salt
of the tree’s first rain.

 

They live in the quiet tide
before the pen descends,
in the pause
between heartbeat and word,
where silence folds itself
into a listening shape.

 

In the shadow‑scent of paper
                             waiting
to be touched by thought,
you can almost hear
the hush of unwoken syllables
turning in their sleep.

 

Some drift closer
to the shore of speech,
their edges foaming with consonants,
                 then slip back
into the mind’s undertow —
a retreat as deliberate as arrival.

 

Perfect in their unspilled form,
they are a library of ghosts,
each spine uncracked,
each title a tide‑mark
on the inner coast.

 

                              And we,
keepers of this unbroken harbour,
                                  carry them —
the weight of what has not yet been said,
the shimmer of what may never be —
bound in the quiet tide
    that moves through us,
               and returns,
   and moves again.

 

 

 

 

 

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