Anonymous Author
The title page, a stark and silent plea,
Beneath the weight of anonymity.
No gilded name, no flourish to declare,
Just words that breathe and stories hanging there.
Who was the hand that penned this fragile world?
A quiet soul in shadows gently curled?
A weary traveler with tales to impart,
Unburdening secrets from a burdened heart?
Did ink flow freely in a candle's gleam,
Lost in the fervor of a waking dream?
Or scrawled in haste on scraps of paper thin,
A desperate whisper trying to break in?
Perhaps they walked among us day by day,
Observing life in their own subtle way.
Collecting fragments, moments caught and kept,
Until the dam of silence finally wept
These narratives, this tapestry untold,
A universe within pages brave and bold.
Did they yearn for recognition, a fleeting glance?
Or find solace in a solitary dance
With language, crafting worlds for their own eye,
Content to let their silent stories fly
On unseen currents finding those who'd heed
The voiceless author's planted silent seed?
There's a certain magic in this hidden art,
A purity untouched by worldly mart.
The words themselves, the sole and honest claim,
Unburdened by the echo of a name.
We turn the pages drawn into the weave,
And find a kinship, a profound believe
In the power of a voice that chose to fade,
Allowing only the story to be made.
So let us read with open hearts and minds,
These treasures left by hands we'll never find.
For in the silence of the unknown pen,
A universe of feeling lives again.
And perhaps, in reading, we ourselves become
A part of the author's long and silent sum.
©bfa041325
Copyright ©
Bernard F. Asuncion
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