Upon the blank canvas, my pen does fly,
Words weaving dreams beneath the sky.
Each stroke a whisper, a silent plea,
To craft a world, to set thoughts free.

Ink flows like rivers, deep and wide,
Carving the landscapes where muses hide.
In quiet corners, secrets unfurl,
As sentences form, they shape my world.

The night grows old, yet still I write,
Guided by the soft glow of midnight light.
Pages turn, a symphony unfolds,
Stories of old, tales yet untold.

With every chapter, a piece of me,
Bound in the lines for eternity.
The dance of words, a writer’s quest,
In this sacred craft, I find my rest.