In the quiet of night, the pen takes flight,
Tracing dreams on pages, soft and white.
Each stroke a whisper, a voice from the heart,
Crafting worlds where stories play their part.

Ink flows like rivers, through valleys of thought,
Painting pictures of battles lovingly fought.
The rhythm of words, a gentle embrace,
Guiding the soul to its sacred place.

Verses weave tales of joy and despair,
Binding emotions in the open air.
With every line, a universe born,
A tapestry of feelings, worn and torn.

The poet’s hand, steady and true,
Shapes the chaos into something new.
A dance of language, both fierce and tender,
In the realm of poetry, we all surrender.