Wesley Hill Poet Free verse

Moment

There was a pause—
not silence,
but a thick, breathing gap
where time forgot its own name.

Seconds stacked like crooked teeth,
biting into a thought
that wouldn’t sit still long enough
to mean anything.

So I spoke—
quick, reckless—
as if words could dress themselves up
and pass for purpose.

But the question lingered,
slick and whispering:
was that real, or just noise wearing a mask?

Am I thinking too much?
No—
I am drowning in the thinking.

Each thought folds into another,
a hall of mirrors arguing with itself,
and suddenly—

I’ve missed something.

A cue.
A door.
A chance that closed without a sound.

Answer?
To what?

The air feels like a test I never studied for,
and somewhere unseen,
a verdict is already written.

Failed.
Again.

The word echoes,
soft at first—
then louder,
then louder—
until it becomes the pulse in my ears.

Will I ever learn,
or am I built to repeat—
a scratched record spinning the same mistake
until the needle wears through reality?

Pause.

There it is again.

That gap—
that holy, awkward silence—
stretching too wide to step across.

Is this meditation,
or mourning?

Did something die here
while I was busy naming it?

Thought breeds action, they said.
But mine hesitate—
hovering like ghosts
afraid to touch the living world.

Something holds me back.

Or saves me.

Or cages me
and calls it protection.

Save me from what?

The red light hums—
beautiful, forbidden,
a small sun begging for skin.

Touch it.
Don’t touch it.

The wall bends—
a face emerges, watching, waiting—
or maybe it’s just the shape
my fear decided to wear today.

Ponder.
Thought.
Action.

The ritual repeats
like a spell I never meant to learn.

Am I still alive,
or just reacting?

Reality hits—sharp, electric—
and for a moment
I feel it—

Accomplishment.

Fragile.
Temporary.
Almost believable.

One foot.
Then another.

Forward, they say.

Forever, it feels.

Another test waits behind the next breath.

Pause.

Thought.

Ponder.

Moment

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