I glanced at the veins
of daisies drifting
from the sky—
roses and tulips, too,
tangled in the clouds,
as though the heavens
were blooming in reverse.

The moon and sun
had come to earth
for rest—
to feel the grass,
to touch something green,
to turn off their lights,
and finally, just breathe.

Because even light
gets tired
of being needed.

I wear cotton, not crowns.
My scent isn’t silk and sugar.
I breathe a simpler kind of air.
I don’t rest where royals do.
I don’t cheer in their holy halls.
My hands wear no jewels,
but they carry
the weight of generations.
And still, I rise —
quiet, fully.
That’s how legacies
are born.

In a world where love is an endangered creature, don’t wander in search of it.
Instead, accept the speed, shape, and limits nature has given you.
You are like a swan, gliding gracefully across the water, while your webbed feet paddle beneath the surface with resilience.
Though you may be seen as a symbol of fidelity, you won’t always smell sweet, and that may be a reason for being disliked.
But that’s not a flaw—just a boundary. We all have our own.
Not everything beautiful takes the same path to become a flower.
♥️

They say love
ends—
That there is a
last one.
But how can
that be?
The wind
becomes the
hands of god—
whenever I
need them.
Clouds pass like
My father’s shadow—
present,
silent,
soft.
Birds scatter at
dusk like
breadcrumbs,
feeding the
hungry sky.
Fallen leaves
pat the earth
where,
I'd be buried.
How could I
not love
the newborn
flowers,
trembling naked
in sunlight,
and the bees
that circle them
like praise?
The sun being
my faith—
steady and warm.
The moon tells
me—how little
I understand.
And the stars
lean in
to comfort
the dark.
I love them
like old pottery,
and aged cheese—
weathered, imperfect,
full of story.

No—
This isn’t my last love.
It’s my endless one.