In the rhythm of time, a yearning takes flight,
To be the verse, not the weaver of light.
Threads of fate spun, in patterns so fine,
Yet, I crave the ink, the words that entwine.

To be the lyric, not the hand with the loom,
In the silent spaces where verses find room.
A poet's creation, a dance of delight,
I wish to be the verse...