A broken heart is–

a poet's greatest treasure.

What if the question
is older than the answer?
What if time forgets
why it moves,
and the stars
no longer know their names?
What if we speak,
but it is the silence between words
that holds the weight.
The road bends
not to mislead,
but to remind us:
truth is never linear.
A seed does not know
it is a tree.
The stone does not dream
of flight
yet both contain the sky.
I do not search
for meaning,
only the place
where meaning once slept.

The gall ink slid slow across the grain
not just black, but silent breathing.
It curled where silence might remain,
where truth lay soft and seething.

It danced in fibers, not for show,
but for the ache of meaning
each line a pulse, a moment letting go,
each word a quiet keening.

The letter held no voice or name,
just petals and a thread.
But still the ink remembered flickering flame
long after it was said.

And when the lamp gave one last sigh,
its breath a final stain
the ink still moved, too bold to die,
alive upon the grain.

I was a poet, beyond all else
so when my body goes
and the pages wait  
know that this song
means more than the sun  
with every sentence
tied to the pain of this world

I was a poet, before I had met you
when the soften glow of
the morning light, flooded my mind
the poems would write themselves
each line shining brighter
then the next
so take my flaws
and sit with my faults
because I,
was a poet, before I was myself.