She walks like a flame through a thunderstorm's cry
not to be doused, not even by sky
A tempest herself in a world gone tame—
fierce, untamed, with a whisper of flame.
She’s mischief in silk, wild laughter at dusk
a soul wrapped in lace, old books and musk
Where others would falter, she dances through pain
a lily still blooming in heavy rain.

Her fingers are stained with the colors of the past
lost in a time where slow love could last
She haunts every library’s dust-covered shelf
finding pieces of others, and maybe, herself.
She sips on old stories in candlelit nooks
falling in love with the scent of old books
Rusty cafés, forgotten halls—
her heart beats loud in crumbling walls.

She is not of this world, not quite of this age
a handwritten letter on heartfelt tenders
A lady too late for ballroom grace—
yet too early to vanish without a trace.
She loves like a secret, too precious to name
soft where she trusts, hard when in pain
yet never the same—
to those whom she lets in
she’s fragile, sincere—
a trembling heart behind armor and spear.

But oh, how she still believes in the spark
in moonlit confessions and hands in the dark
Even after the storms and battles she's braved
her lily still blooms in the ruins she saved
So here’s to the fire that will never die—
to the girl who still dreams beneath sorrow’s sky.

She’s every lost poem, every ache lost in name—
a lily that burns in the heart of the rain.


Erennwrites