The Footnote

 



The Footnote

I don’t belong to the headlines,
the bold chapters of time.
I’m the margin, the scribbled thought,
the overlooked space where stories unwind.

History is written in eras and dates,
with loud voices claiming their place.
But I walk between their crowded lines,
a quiet observer, crossing time.

Not the roaring rebellion of past lives,
nor the blazing speed of now’s drive.
I am the pause, the subtle glance,
the question that lingers, given a chance.

Call me the footnote, the fleeting phrase,
the small detail that shifts your gaze.
Not the protagonist, not the lead,
but the thread that connects—where meaning feeds.

I am the bridge, the space to breathe,
the root that grows beneath the leaves.
Not a name in lights or a loud decree,
but a timeless whisper: I simply be

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