In the quiet of night, where thoughts take flight,
Words dance upon the page, alive with light.
Each line a whisper, each stanza a song,
In the realm of poetry, where hearts belong.

Ink flows like a river, emotions set free,
Crafting visions of what could be.
The pen, a wand, casting spells of rhyme,
Weaving tales that transcend time.

Verses bloom like flowers in the spring,
Each word a petal, each phrase a wing.
They soar through the air, touching the soul,
Filling the void, making us whole.

So we write, with passion and grace,
Leaving traces of our inner space.
For poetry is the canvas of the heart,
Where every line is a work of art.