The Word That Lives

The Word That Lives

Poetry calls to me,

when the night grows long,

when the room feels tight,

and silence takes hold.

It rises from memory,

pulling thought to thought,

giving shape to fear,

that once had no voice.

Lines gather slowly,

as if they know the way,

as if they hold answers,

that time tried to hide.

I follow every pull,

trusting what I feel,

trusting the quiet shift,

that comes as words appear.

Each verse stands firm,

formed from lived days,

taken from long hours,

that never learned to rest.

There is strength in this,

steady and unbroken,

a calm inside the chaos,

that grows through the night.

Poetry fills the dark,

with something warm,

something still alive,

even when hope thins.

when morning comes,

it remains beside me,

holding every truth,

that refused to fade.