I walk the edge of an unwritten thought,
where silence leans forward, listening,
a place where half-dreams scatter
like sparks from a fire you can’t see.
Some days, the world feels stitched together
with threads pulled from old laughter;
other days, it unravels quietly
like a sweater worn at the elbow.
Still, I wander—
through the hush before rain,
through the echo of a name I almost forgot I loved,
through the soft rebellion of wanting more.
And in that wandering
I find small truths:
that hope is a stubborn gardener,
that loneliness has a gentle voice,
that poems bloom best
where rules loosen their collars
and let the heart breathe.
So here I stand,
palms open to whatever arrives –
a word, a spark, a trembling line,
and I welcome it like a long-lost friend
returning with sparks
from the place where the unwritten waits.
Jan 12
Jan 12, 2026 at 12:31 PM UTC
I walk the edge of an unwritten thought,
where silence leans forward, listening,
a place where half-dreams scatter
like sparks from a fire you can’t see.
Some days, the world feels stitched together
with threads pulled from old laughter;
other days, it unravels quietly
like a sweater worn at the elbow.
Still, I wander—
through the hush before rain,
through the echo of a name I almost forgot I loved,
through the soft rebellion of wanting more.
And in that wandering
I find small truths:
that hope is a stubborn gardener,
that loneliness has a gentle voice,
that poems bloom best
where rules loosen their collars
and let the heart breathe.
So here I stand,
palms open to whatever arrives –
a word, a spark, a trembling line,
and I welcome it like a long-lost friend
returning with sparks
from the place where the unwritten waits.
This poem is about wandering through thoughts that havent yet found words, and the little sparks of insight that appear along the way.
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