When a poets ink dries

When a Poets ink Dries

In a quiet room where silence dwells,

Lived a humble poet with stories to tell.

Once he flowed with words, a river so wide,

Now the wellspring was dry, and the echoes had died.

Each morning he’d sit, facing blank sheets of white,

The verses once vibrant now seemed out of sight.

His pen lay forgotten, untouched on the desk,

With nothing to capture, his heart felt like a jest.

He wandered through moments, but they slipped like sand,

Trying to grasp thoughts that he couldn't command.

The rhythm he cherished, the lines that would sing,

Had vanished like whispers, a lost, fleeting thing.

He searched for inspiration in the everyday scene,

In laughter and heartache, in places he'd been.

Yet every corner held only quiet air,

And the words he once cherished were no longer there.

But one fateful evening, beneath the night’s grace,

He gazed at the sky, traced the moon's glowing face.

In that simple beauty, a spark flickered bright,

Flooding him gently with a flood of sweet light.

With a trembling heart, he picked up his pen,

And found that the words were returning again.

No grandiose verses or fanciful schemes,

Just the simplest truths found in quiet dreams.

For sometimes in stillness, creativity stirs,

In the absence of chaos, the beauty prefers

To rise from the ashes of doubt and despair,

Reminding the poet that wonder is there.