A swirling vortex, dark and deep, Where secrets, in the pages, sleep. It feeds on anguish, love's despair, Transforming blood to words laid bare. Each stroke a sigh, a lonely tear, A vacant room where echoes sear. No hand to hold, no voice to hear, Just ink and paper, ever near. For every drop that stains the page, A poet's heart, locked in a cage, Releases thoughts, a whispered plea, Into the void of memory. But none can see the empty space, The solitude etched upon the face, Of ink-stained lines, so neatly penned, a tale of loneliness, without end.