The Unwritten
Beauty in the unfinished
In the quite corners of the mind,
I remain the unsung, undefined.
Not a poem adorned in rhymes,
Nor a melody in timeless chimes.
I’ll never be the eloquent prose,
Or a novel where the storyline glows.
A whisper lost, a thought unsought,
The unwritten tale, in shadows caught.
No poetic verses to call my own,
A subtle echo, in solitude, I’ve known.
I reside in the realm of the unfinished,
where thoughts falter, their edges undiminished.
A mosaic of dreams, incomplete yet raw,
In the vast silence, a graceful withdraw.
Yet, in the void of the unwritten,
There’s a beauty, a mystique, unsmitten.
For I am the space where potential lies,
In the unwritten thought, where imagination flies.
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