The Accidental Muse

Poetry is a state which catches me off guard, in some corner of time, between the shadows of a slow Sunday and the nameless light of an empty street. It doesn't come from a book or from a dream; it rather comes with the subtle echo of days and the quiet touch of hours— a way the universe might reveal somehow in its nakedness, within its fissures. a whisper of itself: of the invisible. I don't know how I can express what I feel, or how to name it. It is light's touch upon the soul, an ancient lullaby in the chest, a revealing that seeks no explanations but only unconditional surrender. And in that revelation, faceless, poetry becomes flesh, body of words that spills out, and I feel the entire universe in the fragrance of the eternal— a moment in which all is one, and my heart expands till it gets lost in the vastness of silence.