Between the Poet and the Poem

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The poet stands behind the line,

A quiet pulse, a waiting sign.

No just the ink, or sound of speech,

But breath that sets the words in reach.


The poem walks where feelings roam,

Far from the hands that made it home.

Once set adrift, beyond the sight,

A timeless truth, forever bright.


Between the two, a name is kept,

A borrowed shine, so softly swept.

Not meant to hide, or cause a lie,

But open space for spirit nigh.


For names may blur, and poets fade,

But poems hold the start they made.

And pen names, like the twilight's gleam,

Let honest thoughts become a dream.


So let the poet softly be,

Let verses show what eyes can't see.

The poem stays, the name may change,

But meaning lives, a wider range.

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