In the quiet of the night, the pen begins to dance,
On the canvas of thought, it sketches each chance.
Words flow like rivers, unchained and free,
Crafting worlds unseen, in verses that plea.

A poet’s heart, raw and bare,
Weaves emotions with utmost care.
Each line a brushstroke, each stanza a scene,
Painting dreams with a touch so keen.

The paper listens, the ink understands,
Together they travel, in faraway lands.
Through the labyrinth of the soul, they gently tread,
Writing about poetry, emotions are fed.

In every rhyme, a story untold,
In every meter, a treasure of gold.
The art of verse, a timeless flight,
Weaving words into the fabric of night.