The Poet As a Poem

I am the word before it’s breathed,
a whisper caught in fate’s own weave.
A thought unshaped, yet burning bright,
a flicker lost between the night.

I am the ink that mourns the quill,
the silence longing to be filled.
A stanza stitched in fleeting thread,
a lyric born when stars have bled.

I am the page the wind has turned,
the ember’s ghost, the lesson learned.
A voice that lingers past the crest
of dying light and hearts confessed.

I am the poet, yet the muse,
the echo sung in verses bruised.
And when the final breath is drawn,
I’ll live within the words once gone.