Whispers of the Inked Horizon

Whispers of the Inked Horizon

In the hush before the morning wakes,
When silver mist the meadow shakes,
A silent room holds scattered dreams,
Where ink flows in its gentle streams.

Pens like rivers, pages like land,
Stories drift from an unseen hand.
Each word a ripple, a breath, a spark,
Lighting shadows within the dark.

The poets gather in quiet ways,
Not in crowds, but in hidden bays.
Between the lines of letters spilled,
Lives a world that longing built.

No clamor here, no fleeting cheer,
Just whispers only the heart can hear.
Verses bloom in secret groves,
Carved from solitude, nurtured in coves.

The sunrise paints the paper gold,
Each stroke a tale, timid yet bold.
Mountains echo forgotten rhyme,
Time dissolves, and thoughts align.

Ink-drenched journeys cross the mind,
Seeking truths that fate designed.
A stanza hums like a distant sea,
Pulling souls to what could be.

In the attic of a dusty home,
Or beneath a sky where ravens roam,
A poet breathes and scribbles fast,
Hoping moments like this will last.

Each metaphor a stepping stone,
On paths that wander yet feel known.
Similes shine like morning dew,
On dreams both old and dreams brand new.

The wind whispers secrets through the pines,
Aligning hearts with hidden signs.
A candle flickers, a shadow bends,
And quiet thought with silence blends.

Through the night, the mind converses,
With hidden lands and unseen verses.
Every echo of the pen’s soft scratch,
Fills the soul’s uncharted patch.

Not for fame, not for applause,
But for the beauty within the cause.
For poets know that words can hold,
Worlds unspoken, yet uncontrolled.

The river outside hums along,
Joining the poet’s muted song.
A leaf drifts by on gentle tide,
Carrying lines the heart supplied.

Mountains stand as vigilant guards,
Over pages written in quiet yards.
Stars wink softly, approving the fight,
Of thoughts born in the womb of night.

When dawn arrives with amber hue,
The words remain, forever true.
Letters linger, the room still breathes,
And quiet magic the soul conceives.

So let the inked horizon spread,
Beyond the sun, beyond the bed.
For poets dwell in realms unseen,
In whispers, echoes, and spaces between.

The world may rush, it may consume,
Yet in this room, the words still bloom.
A testament to the gentle art,
Of a poet’s undivided heart.

Here, amid the quiet and the pen,
Lives a thousand worlds again and again.
A community not bound by place or time,
But united through rhythm, and perfect rhyme.

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