Poetry

They say she was once a star who chose to fall, just to touch the ache of the world with her own hands. Now she scatters herself across open fields in gold and white. A tender bloom offering without asking.

Sow seeds in my crevices, See what might grow between the cracks. Feed this body art, soil, and rain. Witness what roots dare to stretch In whispers of green.

Unlit beeswax candles, A weathered mirror, Trinkets of ancestors past Displayed like a spectral canvas Woven from the threads of memory—
A love note, a repository of remembrance Etched in dust-covered relics.

There is something about light When it shatters the sky, Splitting the blackened sea With something holy. For a moment, I almost believe in angels— Only when the dark Is deep enough

Something is listening. The tides, the stones, the winds—Busybodies, curious things. Something is watching. Older than sleeping mountains, Older than the first breath of stars.