Ink & Echoes

We weave our dreams in lines of gold,

With ink that never grows weary or old.

A poet’s heart is a restless sea,

Drifting through time, wild and free.

Each word a whisper, each verse a flame,

A spark in the dark that calls our name.

We stitch the sky with thoughts untold,

Spilling secrets both fierce and bold.

The world may hush, the world may doubt,

Yet poetry lives—a voice that shouts.

Through love and loss, through joy and pain,

We rise, we fall, we write again.

With trembling hands and beating chest,

We pen our truth and hope for rest.

Yet every stanza, every line,

Turns fleeting time to something divine.

So write, dear poet, and let words flow,

For ink leaves echoes the world must know.

Let passion bleed upon the page,

And set your soul free from its cage.