Inkwell of the Moon

Beneath the velvet cloak of night,

a quill dips into lunar white—

not ink, but stardust, thick and bright,

to scribe the silence into light.

The page, a field of frost and thorn,

where words like weary ghosts are born,

yet tremble, raw, in shadows worn—

each stanza bleeds, unborn, unshorn.

But wait—the moon spills through the pane,

a silver thread to soothe the strain.

It stitches verse from threads of rain,

and whispers what the dark would feign:

“The ache you carve is not in vain—

for every wound lets rivers reign.

The hollows where your fears remain

are caves where poems learn to name.”

So dip again in midnight’s brew,

let constellations course through you.

Each scar, a comet’s trail to strew—

your voice, the dawn the night breaks through.