A poem, a whisper, a flickering light,
Sews hope into my hollow night.
Yet with every stitch it pulls a thread,
Leaves me lighter, leaves me bled.
Words embrace, then slip away,
Like tides that kiss but never stay.
They weave my soul, they break, they mend,
A cycle that will never end.
I give my thoughts, they take their toll,
Each verse is a fragment of my soul.
And when the ink has dried, I see—
The poem remains, but not all of me.
F
About the Author
Foxglove Ink
Chhattisgarh · India
Foxglove Ink is a student from Chhattisgarh, India. They write about memory, absence, and the emotional lives of ordinary moments. Working in both Hindi and English, they often begin with a small image—a rain-soaked window, an abandoned plant, or a half-open book—and follow it until it becomes a story.