An Ode To Writing

Oh, sacred craft, oh fire divine,
Ink and thought, your pulse is mine.
You are the whisper beneath my skin,
The current where my soul begins.

You are the tether that keeps me whole,
The voice, the rhythm, the marrow, the goal.
When silence looms and days turn bleak,
You hand me words when I can’t speak.

You are the breath that fills my chest,
The sleepless nights, the endless quest.
The hum of keys, the scratch of pen,
The story waiting to be born again.

You are the architect, the frame, the light,
The magic that keeps my fire bright.
Through you, I shape, I break, I mend,
I call the page my dearest friend.

What mercy, what gift, what fate, what art—
To hold creation in my heart.
To wield this power, to carve, to mold,
To spin raw thought into stories told.

Oh, writing—wild and vast and free,
You are the best of what’s in me.
No fortune made, no prize bestowed,
Could match the joy of what we’ve sown.

For I am yours, and you are mine,
Bound by rhythm, prose, and time.
And till the final word is penned,
I’ll write and write and write again.