In the quiet hush of morning, when the world still sleeps,

A whisper of thoughts begins to creep.

Not spoken aloud, nor written in ink,

But danced through the heart, a soft and gentle link.

Poems are the echoes of the soul,

A mirror to the feelings we hold.

They speak in rhythms, in rhymes, in lines,

And paint the world with colors unseen by the eyes.

Some poems are like a breeze that passes by,

Soft and fleeting, yet leaving a sigh.

Others are storms—wild, deep, and bold,

That shake the heart and leave it whole.

They are the stories we never say,

The tears we hide, the joy we convey.

In every stanza, a piece of us lies,

A secret shared, a truth that never dies.

From ancient verses carved on stone,

To modern words typed on a screen alone,

Poems have always been the voice of the true,

The unspoken, the lost, the old, the new.

So let us write, not for fame or praise,

But for the beauty that lives in the maze.

For in each poem, there’s a spark, a flame,

A piece of the world that will never be the same.

Poems are not just words on a page,

They are the heartbeat of the human age.

And though they may fade, or be lost in time,

Their essence remains, forever sublime.