The Poem That Walked Away

The Poem That Walked Away

I wrote a line

and it trembled softly,

then lifted from the page

like a bird escaping its cage.

It twisted through the air,

folding letters into shadows,

and I chased it

through corridors of my own mind.

Even the ink bent,

pressing its weight

against the floorboards,

folding rhythm into my chest.

The stanza hummed softly,

its cadence pressing secrets,

and I understood

words could breathe independently.

I caught it once,

and it hissed,

folding history

into a shape I could not hold.

When I tried to rewrite,

the poem vanished,

leaving only echoes

that pressed against my thoughts.