In the hush of midnight’s breath,
when sleep eludes my restless eyes,
a poem stirs—fragile, glowing—
like a moth drawn to the flame of thought.
I shape it, clothe it in rhythm,
polish its bones with rhyme,
turning words until they gleam,
a melody waiting to be sung.
I whisper it to memory’s ear,
hoping dawn will keep it safe,
yet morning scatters fragments—
the song dissolves into silence.
Frustration gnaws,
so I cradle a Dictaphone beside me,
capturing the poem’s final heartbeat
before surrendering to sleep.
Now daylight greets me gently:
all I must do is transcribe
the voice of night preserved,
its cadence intact, its beauty whole.
Technology, my quiet savior,
mends the fragile thread of thought.
It solves much, yet not all—
for broken hearts, lost trust,
and the fading light of loved ones
remain beyond its reach.
In those realms, only love endures:
empathy, compassion, tenderness,
the wisdom of human touch—
these are the remedies
no machine can replace.
