Her soul is a garden, alive with grace,

Colors blooming, a radiant embrace.
Wherever she walks, warmth follows close,

Illuminating hearts with gentle light.

Her words are seeds in the soil of despair,

Sprouting hope in spaces left bare.
She breathes life into the lost and gray,
Nurturing dreams that had slipped away.

Her soul speaks softly, tender and true,
A quiet current flowing through you.
From her depths, she plants the seed,
Life springs forth for those in need.

I feel like I’m alone in a library with no guide,
the silence pressing in,
the words on the pages a reminder
that I can’t connect to anything.
The book I’m reading is losing its meaning,
the plot unraveling
with each sentence I try to understand.
And I wonder,
if I keep reading,
will the ending ever come?
Or is this story one
that doesn’t have a finish,
one that leaves me lost in its endless chapters?

Papers flutter through the air, caught in a silent dance.
A melody hums, sweet and low, where love and silence meet.
The wind whispers secrets, all that's left unsaid.
Each line she writes is for him, his words—
Adding color, giving meaning to her world.

Her dreams of him spill onto ink-stained pages,
Truth unfolding as the papers fall.
A poet's heart, bound to the man she calls her forever home.

And she sang - sang to the night
To the moon hiding behind the clouds...*

Waters receding, tears fall like ink,
Damaged within, like a withering flower,
She wrote pages upon pages,
Day and night, night and day.
And as the fire calmed down to embers,
And as the embers forgot the warmth.
Her eyes wet from tears,
Like rain, they fell to the ground.
A quiet girl once sang by the shore,
Her voice sang lovely, the heavens adored.
And when the night crept in as silent as the wind,
Watching the lights in the distance,
She sat wondering why she was alone.
Within those pages,
This poem she wrote, her dreams, she etched between lines,
And her thoughts she painted without err.
Her words gave life,
Her words added color.
Her soul saw love,
Through another pair of eyes.
Her melancholia was the source,
To every picture painted,
To every succinct detail,
About the life around.
This poem she wrote, among the many,
In those pages she filled without fail.
This was her song to sing,
Her story to tell.
This poem she wrote,
About herself,
As she sat by the dying fire,
Looking out at the moonlight,
Dancing with the waves,
Kissing the shore.

She is hard to read—
A book with weathered pages,
Not flawed, but a mystery,
Like the deep volumes of literature and philosophy.

An enlightened thinker,
Shrouded in secrets yet to be uncovered.
She is a puzzle,
Nearly whole,
But with one piece forever absent.

Step into her mind,
And all corners blur into one.
She’ll leave you adrift—
Trapped in an endless maze,
Where every path loops back
To the place you first began.

Who is she?
Ah, that’s me.