In shadows deep, my words now softly hide,
A poet’s heart, with a broken pencil, tries,
To craft a verse where inspiration died,
And find the light within the darkened skies.
My hand, trembles, grasping shards of lead,
As lines elude my mind’s once vibrant grace.
Yet hope remains where all but ink has fled,
A spark of fire within this silent space.
O muse, return and guide my faltering hand,
Through fractured thoughts and paper’s weary grain.
Restore the rhythm to this silent land,
And let my voice be heard through all the pain.
For though my tool is worn and near its end,
My spirit writes with passion, to transcend.
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