Words rise, uninvited, from the dark,

a flicker of thought,

a call in the early morning quiet.

They tug at old feelings buried deep,

half-forgotten, but not dead.

 

They vanish if I wait too long,

Melting away like snow in the sun 

a shimmer gone before I reach them.

I scramble for a pen,

to capture them in ink.

 

One word invites another,

a rhythm forms,

the fragments bend toward meaning.

Slowly the scattered pieces align,

threads weaving into something whole.

 

And then, suddenly, stillness.

The poem breathes on its own,

no longer a work in progress

but a finished creation,

born from the chaos inside my mind