The Poet's Vigil

In the quiet corners of his own mind, he walks alone, a poet whose pen drips with moonlight. He counts the hours by the hum of his thoughts, each one a lantern swinging in the wind. A thinker — he weighs the weight of names, dreams of the laughter not yet born, imagines a tiny hand curling around his own. In solitude, he builds worlds of words, hoping one day a child will wander in, pick a flower from his sentences, and plant it in their own heart. The waiting is a long horizon, but he watches, because even a lone soul knows the fire is not for himself alone.