Over the fading horizon

Over the fading horizon

Riddle me this.

What makes a poem a poem?

If all words have meaning don't they too have stories,

don't they too bleed a rhythm to those less fortunate enought to hear it.

A mother's solemn prayers each night before bed for her prodigal son, 

to those with a sinister intent in their hearts hoping poetic justice is done, 

to the weeping girl soaked in rains plagued by a love unrequited, 

the silence in your mind knowing a loved one is no more and now gone,

the burden most families carry to their daughters truths they've silenced. 

To me, 

it's all of them in action,

poems yet to be penned down in ink for your own consumption, 

like the leaves in the trees out in the field, 

these words yellow in the wind,

forgotten like old friends, 

life happened to all of them, 

where once seeds grew a plenty now a barren field.

 

The poetry in those unspoken brought out in you a fragile skin, 

and with your exposed heart on each sleeve you bled out a masterpiece in ink, 

all the fires that you started again smoked out the messages from within.

You the repeating arsonist and the burned but never the victim, 

if your guilt had a voice would it say the same as well?

Do you think?-would you cower hold tightly the lied you tell yourself each night living under a shell,

won't they bleed a rhythm to you whose fortunate enough to hear them in their wake.

Would the difference be so big, 

to feel yourself a feather weight, 

to let the winds carry you abeit under a bridge but onto the fading horizon.

Where the singing birds I swear could speak. 

You the chalice of poetry to a good wine, 

taking all of it in over the fading horizon you do not speak you penned down everything in ink and just watched, 

as all the words just started to shine in the now darkened nights sky.

Now's there's a riddle. 

You ponder, 

as you take in all that good wine. 

26/06/26✔️