A million books unwritten lie
Like whispers caught beneath the sky,
Ideas that flicker, bloom, then fade—
Ghosts of words I never made.
They gather in the silent hours,
Petals closed on thought’s lost flowers,
Chapters poised but never penned,
Each a story that won’t begin, nor end.
The poet’s voice, the rebel’s cry,
The lover’s letter left to die,
The worlds that once lit up my mind
Have vanished, leaving none behind.
An epic waits behind closed eyes,
A truth wrapped deep in clever lies,
But fear, that quiet, ruthless thief,
Steals pages blank with no relief.
The ink dries out before it flows,
A hesitant hand forever froze,
Ideas drift like leaves in flight—
Too soft for day, too loud for night.
What weight the shelves of might-have-been,
Where characters breathe dust within,
Each untold tale a silent scream
Dissolving in an unlived dream.
So mourn not just what’s left unsaid,
But what was never born, yet bled—
A million books still locked in me,
Their keys lost deep in memory.
Thank-you for reading.
Much Love and Light,
Brenda Marie
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