In whispers of the ink, where shadows dance,
Words weave their spells, a delicate trance.
Each line a heartbeat, each stanza a sigh,
Crafting worlds where the lost dreams fly.

With trembling fingers, I grasp the quill,
Chasing the echoes of silence, I will
Unravel the threads of the heart's quiet plea,
In the tapestry of language, I seek to be free.

Metaphors bloom like flowers in spring,
Each petal a promise, each fragrance a ring
Of memories captured, of moments held tight,
Illuminating darkness, igniting the night.

The poet's task is to cradle the light,
To mirror the chaos, to render it right.
In the cadence of verses, in rhythm we trust,
For poetry breathes in the ashes of dust.

So let the ink flow, let the stories unfold,
In the realm of the written, where truths are retold.
For in every whisper, in every refrain,
Lies the essence of life, the joy and the pain.