Writing Man

With ink-stained hands and furrowed brow,

A writer crafts the world anew,

Each word a stroke, each phrase a vow,

To paint the emotions deep and true.

In solitude, the thoughts take flight,

Upon the page, they find their place,

Through quiet hours of day and night,

A universe takes shape with grace.

The pen becomes a sculptor’s tool,

Lines flow like rivers, pure and deep,

Where secrets, hopes, and fears can seep.

In every word, a soul does stand,

The world is shaped by writing man.