Child,
who told you to carve shelter
into cracked bones,
to scatter your name
like fleeting petals in a storm,
to call what bites,
what burns—yours?

People—
illusions,
water slipping through the hands of time,
goldleaf peeling from statues,
mirages flickering out of reach.

But you—
obsidian,
forged in fire,
a constellation unraveling in defiance,
the ghost of something ancient,
unforgiving.

You are not held.
You are not lost.
You are the fire,
the tempest,
the truth that will not yield.

What lingers in you—
is eternity.