And on the first day,
There was only silence,
A breath held between worlds,
A page waiting for ink.

And on the second day,
A word arrived—small, uncertain,
A single spark in the dark,
A whisper that dared to become.

And on the third day,
The world called to others,
And they came, tumbling, unraveling,
A sentence bending into being.

And on the fourth day,
Characters rose from the dust,
Eyes wide with wanting,
Tongues forming truths and half-truths.

And on the fifth day,
Conflict cracked open the sky,
Lightning flashing between paragraphs,
A storm of choices, mistakes, desires.

And on the sixth day,
An ending stood at the horizon,
Both inevitable and unknown,
Waiting for the writer’s hand.