image from Gay Miller at pinterest.com
Between the lines, the words don’t sleep~ they coil like smoke, they twist, they weep. Not penned, not pinned, not bound to page, but wild as wind, as storm, as rage. The unwritten verse hums in the throat, a hymn too bright, a note too sharp~ it cuts the air but leaves no mark, no ink to prove it burned so dark. What ghost-song lingers, half-remembered? What love was lost, what ember tender never flared to written light? (Some poems ache—but never bite.) The page stays white. The silence grows. The unwritten knows. Oh, the unwritten knows.
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