The Quiet Desk
The desk is small, the night is wide,
A lamp becomes a rising tide.
Of golden light on paper seas,
Where drifting thoughts find harmonies.
A page awaits, a silent door,
To worlds unseen, to something more.
Each word a step, each line a key,
Unlocking what the mind can be.
The clock may tick, the hours bend,
But every start becomes an end.
And somewhere in the steady climb,
Confusion turns to reasoned rhyme.
So take the pen, begin the quest—
Great things are built from moments dressed
In quiet work and patient sight…
A future written late at night.
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