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Poem
Maybe among so many barricades that protect my heart,
I was born to be read once and then locked away for eternity.
To be just a fleeting glance, a passing shadow, never the one that turns heads.
To be the writer who delicately weaves words, but never the subject of writing.
To immortalize the hidden beauty in others, while dissipating under the shadows of my mortal transience.
Perhaps the simplicity of my existence is what tames the wandering soul,
To become a poet whose verses get lost in the ether of time,
Capturing ephemeral words at dawn, catching hooks under the pale sunlight.
Maybe among so many barricades I can hold,
I was only born to be read once and then closed forever.
And somewhere in the chaos of creation,
I have learned to dance gracefully among the shadows.
In the flow of consciousness, I drown in the ocean of unspoken thoughts,
Where each wave brings an unread secret,
In an old book, with pages lost to time,
I am the chronicler of shadows, but never the beacon of truth.
I feel the barriers of time enshroud me,
And I, a poem written with star ink, am but a shadow
On the parchment of eternity, a late whisper twisted in the eternal wind.
To be a writer, but never the subject of writing,
Is like a sculptor shaping illusions from dreams,
Crafting from pain and joy, yet remaining hidden in the anonymous clay.
Looking at my reflection in the tear of an ancestral spring,
I see my image unravel in soft circles,
Each ripple a metaphor for an unknown fate,
A path hidden in the penumbra of my modest existence.
In the simplicity of my being, I find an entire universe,
I am not the incandescent star in the night sky,
But the fine ray of the last sunset, a fleeting touch,
A silent presence that soothes the heart weary from life's waves.
In the ephemeral chaos of the world, I have learned to embrace silence,
To accept the role of the unknown narrator,
Gently capturing fragments of wisdom,
Like a wind gathering the whispers of dream flowers.
Perhaps I was born to be read and then forgotten,
But in that momentary reading, I leave a deep and hidden mark,
A melancholy imprint that pulses within hearts,
Like a sweet-bitter aroma carried by the breeze of mystery.
And in this mystical dance of consciousness,
I remain a poet, an unseen scribe,
Sowing the seeds of thought in the soil of fleeting dreams,
Returning always to the eternal source of divine inspiration.
In this humble and mysterious existence,
I find my place among stars and shadows,
And thus, I continue my story,
An unspoken verse, yet lived with the intensity of a beating heart,
A living poetry, breathing in each reverie
Of the world's transient spirit.
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