Head bowed, she lingered in the doorway,
her shadow stretched like a sigh,
the child she once was slipping away,
a whisper unraveling in the dark.
She stood there, her silence heavy,
a stone dropped into the well of time.

Later, she lay naked,
her body a poem written on rags,
the stolen fabric of her dreams
stitched with the trembling light of stars.
Before her, the wall—
a blank canvas of memory,
white as the breath of the moon.

Her destiny was a gold thread,
meant to wind through the arms of a lover,
their limbs a forest of quiet promises.
The petals around them bled like hearts,
the leaves fell like old songs,
and time, that ghostly wind,
whispered them into stillness.

The demons came,
their wings dark as midnight oceans,
their voices soft as a lover’s hand.
But she stood, her heart
a blooming wound, her forgiveness
a river running deep beneath the earth.
She split herself open like fruit,
the seeds of her past scattering
into the soil of her new self.

She became fire,
a wild and untamed flame,
liquid heat coursing through her veins.
Her voice, once caged,
rose up, fierce and unashamed,
an echo that shook the sky.

She was a ruby falling,
a drop of blood into the abyss of sleep,
her footsteps dissolving into the earth.
Hope died quietly,
its wings clipped by the raven’s cry.
The world crashed around her,
its colors breaking like waves against the cliffs.
And still she stood,
her body the pulse of the universe,
her soul the ache of eternity.