The Poet With No Pen

In a world where words flow like rivers clear,

Lived a poet, the dreamer, devoid of fear.

No pen to grasp, no ink to spill,

Just paper in hues, a canvas to fill.

Red as the dawn, with passion ablaze,

White like the clouds, in a soft, gentle haze.

Pink like the blush of a lover’s sweet sigh,

These colors her palette, beneath an open sky.

She sat by the window, with thoughts unconfined,

Each whispering breeze, a verse redefined.

With fingers outstretched, she danced through the air,

Tracing the stories that lingered there.

Her heart was a vessel of moments untold,

In shades of rich crimson, both tender and bold.

The white spoke of clarity, of hope yet to bloom,

While pink wrapped around her, dispelling all gloom.

With no tools of trade, yet a vision so grand,

She painted with feelings, with love as her hand.

Each line a reflection of dreams she had spun,

In a world of pure color, where poetry’s done.

So let not the lack of the usual tools,

Diminish the power that poetry fuels.

For the heart, it can write on the blankest of sheets,

In colors unchained, where the spirit retreats.

The poet with paper, in red, white, and pink,

Crafted a universe—just pause and think.

For in every hue lies a story to find,