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.