Whose pen commands the garden of her grief?
The vines grow perfect—never choke the gate.
Each thorn arranged, like pain seeks its relief
In blooms too neat to carry real weight.

She sings like sirens housed in mirrored halls,
A practiced ache that never truly breaks.
Each echo wears a mask, each silence stalls—
A thousand deaths, but none that rattle stakes.

Is she the ghost, or just the mourning veil?
A candle lit to cast a gentler shade?
The wax runs clear, the flame too soft to flail—
Like sorrow dressed for show, not meant to fade.