I love it when the words just flow,
as if they somehow deeply know
exactly where they need to be—
how poetry at last sets them free.
When comes the hour, still and clear,
to make intent resound sincere,
I spill my ink across the page,
and feel each line again engage.
Beneath the hush of candlelight,
a priestess bound in sacred rite,
I bless the moment once again
with paper, ink, and trusted pen.
The words, they speak with quiet grace,
and waltz across each longing space,
in choreographed, refined design—
a rhythm etched in every line.
And when the final verse is done,
that’s when the truest spell\'s begun—
the price and gift, the consequence,
of wielding such poetic eloquence.