‘The Weight of Dreams’ 

At a little writing table by the window’s quiet frame,
a single sheet of paper waited, pale as a whispered name.
The room was still as sleeping lakes beneath the breath of night,
while silver moonbeams crossed the floor and dressed the dark in light.
The paper dreamed of stories yet unwritten by the hand,
of distant seas and mountain winds and undiscovered land.
The moon looked down with patient eyes through glass and velvet sky,
as if it knew a thousand songs and watched the hours drift by.
A pen awoke. The silence stirred. The first small mark was made.
Like roots beneath a forest floor, the words began to braid.
Each sentence caught a strand of moon and wove it into verse,
turning simple paper white into a tiny universe.
Outside, the stars burned softly like lanterns set afloat,
while inside, thought became a line and feeling found a note.
The table held the weight of dreams, the paper held their flight,
and all the world seemed gathered there beneath the moonlit night.
When dawn at last approached the sky and silver turned to gold,
the paper bore a living heart where emptiness had rolled.
The moon slipped gently from the scene, its quiet duty done,
yet left its glow between the words for every coming sun.