Photo by Ricardo Espejo Catalán on Unsplash
My next poem waits in quiet air,
A spark of thought not yet laid bare.
It stirs and sways, just out of sight,
A dance of shadows, soft as night.
The lines, like whispers, barely formed,
With each heartbeat, the words are warmed.
They rise and fall, then pause again,
A fleeting rhythm, held within.
What shall it be? A gentle breeze,
Or roaring waves that bend the seas?
Perhaps a tale of love, of loss,
My next poem, soon to start—
A quiet murmur from the heart.
About the Creator
Abbas
Versatile writer skilled in both tale & stories. Captivate readers with engaging content & immersive narratives. Passionate about informing, inspiring, & entertaining through words.
Enjoyed the story? Support the Creator.
Subscribe for free to receive all their stories in your feed.
Comments
There are no comments for this story
Be the first to respond and start the conversation.