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Invisibility of Poets

A screen's smallish glow 

a doorway's gaped invite,

through which someone steps 

without footsteps.

They sit among the others—

icons, cursors, drifting lines—

yet no one turns their head.

The room is bright,

but they move as if under low light,

careful not to disturb the air.

Words gather in their hands,

quiet as dust on a shelf.

They lift them,

shape them,

offer them outward—

but the crowd scrolls on,

seeking sparks,

seeking spectacle,

seeking anything louder

than a steady breath.

The poet stays.

Not for applause,

not for the quick flare

of attention,

but for the simple act

of placing something honest

where others might pass by.

.