In the quiet world between pen and light,
Where thoughts like rivers flow,
A poem's birth is a silent night,
A secret only the moon will know.

It waits in stillness, ink barely dry,
For eyes to give it breath,
For in the reader’s mind to lie,
Its meaning woken from death.

Not in the scribble of the poet's hand,
Nor in the echo of their voice,
But in the reader's heart does it stand,
In their soul, it finds its voice.

For a poem is a bridge, a door,
A path from soul to soul,
Its journey ends not on the page,
But in the reading, it becomes whole.

So when you find these words and read,
Know the poem at last is freed,
Its purpose found, its journey done,
In the space between us, we become one.

March 11, 2024
Created by
MarkWaldrop