The Writer's Solace

In a world where dawn breaks with a sigh,
Lives a writer, beneath the sky,
Her joy, her solace, her only light,
Found in the silence of the night.

Each evening, as stars begin to gleam,
She writes, lost in a waking dream,
Her thoughts flow like a river's course,
Till dawn, she's lost in words, of course.

The day, a foe she must confront,
With dread, she thinks of what's to come,
The outside world, a noisy place,
Where she must walk at a hurried pace.

To supermarkets or meetings, she'd go,
Her steps quick, her heart in tow,
For all she needs, her daily fuel,
Is coffee, dark, and richly cruel.

There's a place she knows, a quiet nook,
Where the energy's good, and she can look,
For peace, for calm, for a moment's grace,
In the hustle of the human race.

A smile, a rare gem, she treasures so,
From the barista, who seems to know,
Her need for silence, her disdain for chat,
A smile, not words, is what she's at.

Small talk, to her, is but a chore,
A dance of words she can't ignore,
But gossip and chatter, she'll not partake,
Her mind's too full, her thoughts too awake.

She writes of worlds where silence reigns,
Of heroes lost, of forgotten gains,
Her books, her magic, born of night,
In them, she finds her true delight.

Yet, as she sits with coffee warm,
She feels the world's intrusive form,
But in that smile, in that brief peace,
She finds a moment's sweet release.

To be continued...