"Flesh—latticed in hush,
pinions bloom along their span—
pearled ache, ascending."
— (Dove in Bloom)
Vianne, you write of ache with wings,
of pain that rises, quiet and silver-lit,
as if sorrow itself could take flight.
Your words breathe in the hush of night,
leaving echoes in the marrow of silence.
"Moon spills in silver—
a fish arcs through drowning light,
the tide gulps its ghost."
— (Eclipsed Tide)
You catch the moment where light drowns,
where loss glows before vanishing.
A fleeting wisp, a spectral inhale—
a beauty held just long enough to ache.
"Willow bows, exhaled—
a hundred arms swaying slow,
braiding hush with time."
— (The Willow’s Breath)
Time does not pass in your verses—
it exhales, it braids itself into the wind,
swaying between presence and absence,
where every whisper lingers.
"Chevy lilts down arteries
stitched in coral marrow,
leather still inked with your laughter."
— (A Note Held Past Silence)
You write memory like it breathes,
like laughter can be sewn into the bones,
like voices don’t fade but dissolve
into the space between heartbeats.
"She dances where gravity forgets,
laughter drips slow as melting wax—
feral, fleeting, free."
— (Tiny Dancer)
There is something wild in your words,
something untamed, yet delicate—
a fleeting step beyond the known,
where even gravity dares not follow.
Vianne, your poetry lingers—
like dusk humming against the tide,
like the hush before the willow exhales,
like a note held just past silence.
You don’t just write—
you let words breathe,
you let them ache,
you let them be.
And in that—
they are enough.