Life is the poetry of life itself.
each breath a stanza, heartbeat a rhyme.
Dew on petals is a metaphor,
children’s laughter a refrain,
dusk’s tears a punctuation.
We walk through verses unknown,
footsteps leaving ink stains,
while wind turns the pages of our days.
Sometimes the meter falters,
rhymes grow rough,
yet pauses are part of the song.
Poetry is in the sun’s spill through cracks,
a stranger’s smile becoming a couplet.
Let us live as poets,
not with quills, but with being,
for life is its own poetry—
and we, its scribes.