The Poets’ Insolence

A notebook, my canvas, an echo of now,
Ink bleeding tales, while the clock ticks its vow.
Yet, flames dance close, a fiery ballet,
threatening the verses I've woven in clay.

Digital whispers in the vast, pixelated sea,
Cloud-kissed dreams, yet a storm could decree,
A solar flare's dance, a cosmic ballet,
Wiping the stanzas I've etched in the day.

Permanence, a specter, an elusive wisp,
In the dance of creation, a delicate twist.
Fire, flood, or the silence of bytes,
Yet, here I am, weaving words in the night.

So, I scribe in the shadows, a gambler's delight,
Knowing the permanence we seek is finite.
Yet, in the ink and the pixels, a defiance,
The poets’ rebellion against time's cruel science.