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Poem

People think I do not realise,
Yet letting them think so is my vice.
I speak as if I hold the universe’s key,
But truth be told, not a word is worth a fee.

A gift, I whisper, to weave a tide,
To drown a hundred sailors in whispers wide.
They chase the shore that never appears,
Yet one sailor holds on through the years.
I ramble, yet his patience stays,
Listening, as if time obeys.
He gathers my words, though empty they seem,
As if they carry a buried dream.
Scribbling, I turn—my thoughts unfold,
Written in ink of neglect, heavy and cold.
And there he stands, steadfast and bold,
His life—my epilogue, silently told.

No answers remain, no wisdom to give,
Only the weight of the words I relive.
Yet still, he listens, though nothing is new,
Resigned in devotion, as I fade from view.

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