Poetry is love in a whispered line,
A rhythm woven through space and time.
It breathes in silences, dances in the rain,
Speaks through the joy and echoes the pain.
It’s the eyes that meet across a page,
A heart uncaged, a softened rage.
It’s candlelight in darkest night,
A quiet truth that burns so bright.
It’s touch without a hand extended,
A wound remembered, softly mended.
It’s every beat the soul dares speak,
Both strong and trembling, bold and meek.
It’s not just roses, wine, or song—
It’s every place we’ve both belonged.
Poetry is love, not just in part—
It’s ink and fire. It’s blood. It’s heart.
Thank-you for reading.
Much Love and light,
Brenda Marie
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