In silent whispers of the night,
Words weave tales in gentle flight.
The pen becomes a wand of dreams,
Spinning worlds in silver streams.

Lines of longing, lines of love,
Stars above and hearts that dove.
Each stanza a canvas, bold and true,
Painting skies in every hue.

The rhythm beats, a pulse divine,
In every heart, the echoes chime.
Through the ink, emotions flow,
A gentle river, soft and slow.

To write a poem is to breathe,
To capture moments in a wreath.
In every line, a soul is bared,
A dance of words, deeply shared.