A blank canvas, pristine and white,
Awaits the touch of ink, so bright,
Each line and curve, a story told,
On paper, dreams and thoughts unfold.

The quill in hand, a gentle glide,
Across the page, it does confide,
Secrets, hopes, and whispered fears,
Etched in ink, through countless years.

The paper listens, never speaks,
Absorbing tales, as ink it seeks,
A silent witness, to joy and pain,
Through sunlit days and stormy rain.

And when the tale is fully spun,
The paper rests, its duty done,
A testament to thoughts set free,
On wings of ink, eternally.