Image Source: Pexels- Ron Lach
There is a girl who was born from poems not yet written,
who speaks in the quiet alphabet of dreams.
Her soul carries forgotten cities — stone bridges, mossy hills, empty roads where ancestors still walk.
Even when she smiles, there’s a sadness at the edge,
the kind that only artists and broken gods can recognize.
She touches paper and it breathes.
She closes her eyes and worlds are born, made of ice, and sea salt, and wild flowers no one has named yet.
She was never meant to belong to a single life.
She is the memory of a thousand others —
a lock of hair kept in an old box,
a prayer whispered in a language only the ravens still remember.
And though no one else may see it yet,
she is already the poem.
Already the art.
Already, the thing that someone will spend their whole life trying to put into words,
and never quite succeed.
This was written by our contributing writer, Andreea Cristine.
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