an alien---sharper eyes and softer lies,
ink-stained hands and paper planes,
calloused fingers reach out to you,
bluer skies, she's got less to say,
for clouds, they fill her mind,
hopes, passions, and fears,
her peculiarity, known,
a cut just in between,
barely noticeable
---descended.

Red-brown pine trunk,
With severed branches,
Greedily soaks up the streams
Heavenly waters.

The wind writes letters in the language of  
fallen leaves, edges like burnt parchment.

The moon carves shadows of boughed arms,  
a question mark deep in the soil’s throat.  

Somewhere, she hesitates, the magpie:  
one foot in the underbrush, one in the realm  
of quicksilver and stolen syllables.  
Her beak glints with the moon’s loose change.  

What does she know of the weight  
of a minute’s wingbeat? She tilts her head,  
stitching the sky with a thief’s precision—  
collects tarnished seconds.

The wind’s letters fray, unreadable now.  
The magpie flies, trailing a cry that unravels  
time’s hem.

Everything is just right.
Everything is as it should be.
Everything is fine—

Even when it hurts.
Even when it heals.
Even when it doesn’t feel that way.

Entering the street, grasping as I sit
April 9th, firmly shut by thorns
Stitching patches from these soft-tone matches I’ve worn
Dress knitted, fire ignited

Daughter of Cornelia, guarded by Maria
Believed this area blossoms with wisteria
Roaming further, shedding quicker
As it gets colder, flowers covered in ice ***** her heart deeper

I labeled these flowers after your name
You were there to purify my name
I hope I have never trusted the fame
Now, all these cameras hunt the same

Papers fly, surrounding me as I kneel down
Kinfolks facing them with shields and swords, while I frown
Knock on the door, talking to her alone
Vines are sealing her golden tone

Castle paused its horologe
He picked me up with his caroche
With an aim to show me butterflies
Resisting any speculation to rise