In the quiet corners of my room, Where shadows danced in evening's plume, My hands spun worlds of vivid hues, With dolls to guide and thoughts to muse. An only child, yet far from lone, I stitched my tales, my dreams, my own, While friends would sometimes visit near, My toys and pens drew them dear. Yet in those hours, the whispers told, My hands held more than they could hold, In solitude, they sculpted grace, A world of wonder, my secret place.