Writer's Quill, Whispers Still
The quill, once held by hand so strong,
Now rests upon a dusty shelf,
Forgotten tales, where they belong,
No longer whispered to itself.
Ink, once a wellspring, dark and deep,
Has dried to flakes, a shadowed stain,
The writer sleeps, a peaceful sleep,
But though the hand may write no more,
The words still dance on memory's shore,
In hearts that felt the stories soar.
A legacy of ink and quill,
Of dreams ignited, hearts set to thrill,
The writer's quill, whispers still.
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