In the secretive corners of the soul

In the secretive corners of the soul, Where you are guided by the whispers of loss, There hides the seed of poetry — A precious stone born from the unseen pressure of pain. An ancient ritual in a canvas of darkness, Where despair weaves with a thread of the moon, Resilience embroidering melted illusions Upon the perfect fabric of the night. Poems are born from the depth of obscurity Like lotus flowers rising hastily, From the murky waters of dissatisfaction, A cradle for sorrow and a fountain of light. It is not given to everyone to gather them, To weave from strands of misery a wreath That will shine upon the brow of time — A royal diadem forged in the forge of a tumultuous heart. Writing a verse is a journey through the depths of the mist, A treasure hunt in caves forgotten by echo, When hope longs to be saved from drowning And in the arms of disillusion, it is hope that is reborn. Reading is a sacred act, akin to a posthumous dream, Where you feel the word wizards unravel their mystery, And even the reader becomes a pilgrim in their own sanctuary, Adorning themselves with the radiance of a balm intended only for the initiated. Only the chosen one feels how fate spins amongst verses, How from the endless desert springs an oasis, An alchemical chorus, in which each metaphor is a star That leads you, beautiful and bittersweet, through the maelstrom of this mystical journey.