In the quiet corners of a writer’s mind,
Words dance in rhythm, seeking form,
Like whispers of a gentle breeze,
They rise and flow, a silent storm.

Each line a brushstroke on endless canvas,
Painting emotions, raw and true,
Capturing fleeting moments of life,
A tapestry of dreams in varied hues.

In stillness, the pen becomes a voice,
Speaking truths untold, yet bold,
Weaving tales of love and sorrow,
In verses timeless, pure as gold.

So write, dear poet, with heart unbound,
Let your soul’s melody take flight,
For in the art of weaving words,
We find the beauty of endless night.