Posted by At midnight’s stroke, my poem finds its rest,
Words, martyrs of a quest, they’re blessed.
In my heart, stillness, tears may spill,
Doubt’s chill, but a spark waits to fulfill.
No more doubting, I’ll seize my own grace,
Embrace the moon’s mystery, find my place.
With each verse, greatness unfurls,
Ordinary to pearls, poetry swirls.
Believing in the beauty deep within,
My poem becomes amazing, akin.
Simple, yet powerful, its essence refined,
A testament to the magic of my mind.