Unwritten

There is a poem I have yet to write, a ghost ensnared within the ribs of silence, a pulse in the throat of absence, a rhythm swirling down the drain of thought. I do not pursue it. It resists my touch. It coils at the edges of understanding, half-formed, half-wild, shifting, unraveling, reforming— a thing too untamed for words to hold. It battles me. It kicks against the walls of form, snarls at the entrance of meaning, teeth bared at the burden of being named. Some words cannot be tamed. They resist my structure, defy my hands. They understand—once I name them, they are no longer free. So I unwrite. I let language collapse, let ink scatter like startled birds from wire, let the bones of meaning break under the weight of undoing, until nothing remains but the thing itself— breathing, pulsing, waiting. Not every poem is meant to be written. Some come only to remind me— I am not the master of the words. The words are the master of me.