Within the shroud of silence that cloaks the earth,
at the dead of night when shadows take birth,
a writer’s mind stirs from its slumber,
craving to unleash its creative thunder.

The poet’s heart thumps with ardour and zeal,
and the blood in their veins yearns to reveal,
the force of their imagination’s might,
desperate for release from their internal fight.

As the pen is grasped with quivering hand,
the writer feels the power at their command,
the potential to conjure up marvels galore,
to explore depths never seen before.

With each stroke of the pen, words pour out,
like a roaring river, surging about,
as every line that takes shape and form,
is a blessing the universe performs.

The writer becomes the Biblical Moses,
splitting the sea of their own psyche’s doses,
letting words rush out onto the page,
giving birth to a thousand more miracles to engage.

Like hymns ascending to the divine,
the poet’s words are a sacred sign,
of their soul’s depth and longing’s intensity,
pouring out like a never-ending liturgy.

Before the dawn, the writer’s spirit breaks free,
realizing that setting words loose is key,
to liberating themselves, forevermore,
in the realm of the poet, everything’s to explore.

So let the words flow like a torrential stream,
let the ink spill like a monsoon’s dream,
for in the world of the writer, there’s nothing to lose,
and everything to gain, in every verse and muse