Inkwell of the Infinite

We are the scribes of silent storms,

the architects of ink,

who carve constellations

from the cracks in broken things.

Our quills dissect the shadows,

unraveling the night

to stitch a tapestry of truths

in threads of borrowed light.

Some call it madness—

this dance with empty pages,

where whispers turn to wildfires

and sorrows into sages.

We write with hands still trembling

from the weight of unsung hymns,

yet dare to plant alphabets

where deserts drown in whims.

Each comma is a heartbeat,

each period a pause—

a bridge between the fractured souls

and galaxies of flaws.

So let them say the world is drained

of magic, hope, or rhyme—

we’ll brew tempests in teacups,

turn seconds into time.

For every stanza born in ash

revives a dormant spark,

and every poet’s breath exhaled

ignites the dying dark.

Final Stanza (Call to Rise):

So lift your pens like torches,

let your verses split the sea—

the world is but a prologue

to the worlds you’ve yet to free.

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