Draft

Draft

In the hush of midnight ink,
a blank page waits, a quiet field,
where thoughts like shy sparrows pause,
hesitant to take to wing.

I lay the first faint line, a tremor,
a whisper of what might become,
each stroke a tentative breath,
testing the weight of unborn words.

Erasers sigh, soft as autumn leaves,
sweeping away the false starts,
while the margin fills with marginalia—
notes to myself, half‑formed, half‑known.

The draft is a restless river,
carving channels through doubt,
its waters murky with possibility,
yet promising a clearer sea beyond.

When the final full stop lands,
the draft exhales, its skin now smooth,
a skeleton clothed in flesh and thought,
ready to step into the light.