Lament Of The Scribe

In the labyrinth of lines, a lone scribe weaves,

Lost in the lexicon, where passion deceives.

Letters like whispers, secrets untold,

A lament of writing, in ink, stories unfold.

Longing for solace in the parchment's embrace,

Lingering echoes of words, a delicate grace.

Labyrinths of language, a labyrinth of the mind,

Lost in the verses, seeking what's confined.

Leaden hours pass as the quill dances on,

Leaning on dreams, where shadows are drawn.

Lunar illusions, a language profound,

Lament of the scribe, in silence, is found.

Lingering twilight, a tapestry of ink,

Lacrimosa of verses, emotions in sync.

Lullabies of syntax, a symphony to hear,

Lament of writing, a soliloquy sincere.

Lurking doubts in the margins, like a ghost,

Lingering on sentences, what's hurt the most.

Luminous metaphors, a labyrinth of art,

Lament of the scribe, a journey from the heart.

Longevity sought in the pages' caress,

Lingering legacy, a soul to impress.

Lingering on the precipice, on the verge,

Lament of writing, a universe to emerge.