I stay here through the endless night,  
Drowning in the ink of others' dreams,  
Where words are woven like delicate threads,  
Each one a whisper, a silent scream.  

The pages turn beneath my fingers,  
A steady pulse, a quiet breath,  
In the stillness of my solitude,  
I watch their stories rise from death.  

I am but an observer in this space,  
A shadow in the light of their tales,  
Their joys, their wounds, their deep despair—  
I carry them, like whispered gales.  

If you are lost, adrift in sorrow,  
Or tangled in the threads of doubt,  
Let these words, like falling stars,  
Guide you through the darkened route.  

Let them be a balm for broken hearts,  
A fleeting flame in the coldest dark,  
A whisper soft enough to reach  
The quiet corners of your spark.  

I stand here in the quiet, still,  
A silent witness to your grief,  
But if my words can offer peace,  
Then let them be your sweet relief.  

- Cas