Ink-Stained Dreams

Oh, to be a poet in a candle-lit room, Where silence hums like a sacred tune, With scattered pages and ink-stained hands, And verses flowing like ocean sands. To bleed in lines what hearts conceal, To turn mere sorrow into something real, To dance with metaphors late at night, And shape despair in dawn’s soft light. Oh, to wander thought’s untamed road, Carrying nothing but a poet’s load— Of aching love and aching loss, Of fragile truths the world would toss. To speak of stars no one has seen, To write of places we’ve never been, To make the mundane suddenly grand, With just a pen held in trembling hand. To live in whispers, to dream in ink, To write the edge before we sink— Yes, let me live that quiet riot, Oh, to be a poet, forever defiant.