In Your Hands Feel the Pulse of Poetry’s Future

The Evolution of Poetry in 2024

I stand here, at the edge of knowing,
Skirting the threshold of language,
To unveil the soul’s vernacular,
That dances on the tongue, without form.

In halting breath and stuttering pulse,
The words now coil into soundless embrace,
Unravel at seams, the words dilute,
I trace the echoes of what nothingness holds.

You ask me of the soul and its speech,
But the query, it drizzles like autumn rain,
Through the spaces, through the void,
Gathered at the fingertips, then vanished, again.