The Pen, the Idea, the Poet

The Pen, the Idea, the Poet

The pen lies still, its soul asleep,

A vessel of thoughts the mind must keep.

An idea stirs, a spark, a flame,

A whisper calling the poet’s name.

The pen awakens, poised to glide,

Across the page where dreams collide.

Ink flows freely, a river in part,

Guided by the poet’s heart.

The idea dances, shapeless, free,

Until the poet bends its knee.

Through twists of words, it takes its form,

A quiet calm, or a raging storm.

But is it the pen, or the poet’s will,

That breathes life into the visions still?

Or is it the idea, timeless, vast,

A gift from the present, born of the past?

Together they weave what cannot stray—

The pen, the poet, and the idea’s sway.

Its end result a work of poetical art,

Words born from a true poet’s tender heart