The Regret of the Unsent Letter

Within the dim haven of a drawer's deep keep,
Lay a prisoner silent, of paper and ink.
An unsent confession, where emotions did sleep,
A story unshared, on the very brink

Of utterance, yet held by a fear's cold embrace,
A fragile creation, with yearnings so vast,
A message of longing, held captive in place,
Its destiny tethered to shadows long cast.

The folds of the paper, like creases of worry,
Held the weight of the words, penned with trembling hand.
Each line a raw nerve, in a desperate hurry,
To bridge the vast distance, to make someone understand.

But the courage that sparked it, had flickered and died,
Leaving the letter in perpetual wait,
Its passionate pleas, forever denied
The chance to find solace beyond its sealed fate.

The ink, once so vibrant, a confident flow,
Now faded and muted, like hope's gentle gleam.
Each stroke a faint echo of feelings below,
A testament fading of a passionate dream.

It remembered the tremor that ran through the quill,
As secrets poured forth, in a vulnerable stream,
The fervent conviction that guided it still,
Though time had now dulled its original theme.

Oh, how it did yearn for the journey untold,
To be slipped in an envelope, sealed with a sigh.
To travel through cities, both brave and so bold,
Beneath the vast canvas of day's azure sky.

To land on a doorstep, a message so true,
Held tight in a hand, with a heart all its own,
To finally break through, the silence between two,
And plant seeds of solace where bitterness had grown.

It listened intently to sounds from outside,
The rustle of footsteps, the laughter so near.
Each noise was a phantom, that cruelly implied
A world full of motion, while it remained here.

It envied the postcards that journeyed afar,
The bills and the leaflets that freely took flight,
While it, the bearer of truth's fragile scar,
Was trapped in the darkness, devoid of all light.

Did the paper feel sadness, a papery sigh,
For the words left unspoken, the moments gone by?
Did the ink weep in silence, a shadowy tear,
For the chasm of silence, the absence so clear?

Perhaps in the quiet, when dust motes would dance,
It conjured the image of the one it should reach,
Imagining eyes with a hesitant glance,
Absorbing the message, the truth it would preach.

But the hand that had crafted it, trembled with doubt,
The "what ifs" and "maybes" a powerful chain.
And so the poor letter remained locked without,
Its heartfelt confession, a lingering pain.

A prisoner of caution, of fears undefined,
It lay in the darkness, its purpose forlorn,
A bridge left unbuilt, between two separate mind,
A promise of healing, that never was born.

Yet within its confines, the emotion still burned,
A stubborn small ember, refusing to cease.
For even in silence, a lesson is learned,
Of chances unseized, and a longing for peace.

And maybe, just maybe, on some distant day,
The drawer will be opened, the letter will gleam,
And a hand, now perhaps a bit older and grey,
Will finally release it, from its long-held dream.

A testament fragile, to what might have been,
A whisper of feeling, that waited so long,
The regret of the unsent, forever within,
Its yearning for freedom, a poignant, sad song.

- Khushi Kaul