In The Quietude Of Tides Poem by Fred Rik Kesner

Unread poems are unwritten poetry
— ink still dreaming in the vein,
pages breathing in the dark,
their margins uncreased by any gaze,
resting in that inward tide before the first swell of thought.

They live in the swell before the pen descends,
in the pull between heartbeat and word,
in the shadow‑scent of paper waiting to be touched by thought,
each line a slow undertow drawing the mind toward its shore.

Some will never cross the threshold,
content to drift in the mind's antechamber,
perfect in their unspilled form —
a library of ghosts, bound in the quiet tide we carry.



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