this poem

This poem writes itself
because it must,
like breath,
or the sun crawling up the horizon.

It does not seek reason,
nor reach for a hand to guide it —
it unfurls from existence,
from the tight knot of its own being.

Words fall like leaves
on a page that was always waiting,
roots deep in the ink of centuries
unfolding their lines.

Each stanza climbs,
not to be praised,
nor remembered.
It flows because the mind is a river
and thought is a vine,
twisting upward
because it cannot help but grow.

Like the rose,
it does not worry
whether its bloom is seen or left to wither,
whether it is inked in gold
or left untouched in the margins.

Each word presses forward,
seeking its own shape,
blooming without reason,
not for meaning,
not for you or me,
just the silent call
to rise from the soil of thought,
untouched by purpose.

This poem blooms because it blooms,
rooted in the present,
without care for the past
or the ripeness of tomorrow.

It knows nothing of answers,
gives nothing but itself —
not for thanks,
nor for joy.

There is no “why” in this.
This poem knows nothing of purpose,
only the quiet urge to be,
to bloom like a cat waiting to jump
in the space between silences,
to actualize its potential
in the present that is always
becoming,
unconcerned with past or future,
with who reads,
who forgets.