And over the specks of dust and rose-colored evenings,
in the melancholic fate of soliloquy;
yet as wretched as her soul be, her very first breath was, “Have mercy.”
 
The pale, starry-eyed of April’s sky ends, and it’s pouring; the trees are swaying in their places; the sun is impressed by the rising of the lilies.
Daunted by the ray of light, quietly caressing its innocence.
 
She looked over the moon, as if it were painted by someone she knew.
In hope, she clenched her fist and whispered again and again and again.
Like the petals of dried daisies fallen from the moon.
 
She knew it’s written on the stars; someone knows her name.
 
The airy summer between spring and March’s language, an imprecise grief of longing,
a desert of bones starved on
an ethereal ghost of past summers and the sickening void of the night sky,
she needed to endure
something in her holler with violence—some rage kept on the other side of her old pillow.
 
And yet it’s still written on the stars—someone knows her name.
 
Where the river flows, she follows.
In hopes she’d be directed to the one who wrote her;
achingly believing she’s the muse this time.
Who else could have written her the way she is?
 
With her eyes the same as the earthly sand,
her lips alive in light gray, with the way she lit up when the moon reveals himself to her,
the sea pushes upon the land as if it were longing to kiss her weary feet.
 
With the way her hips dance when she walks, when she closes her eyes, only she can hear her author’s note at the back of her heart. Slowly yet surely whispering, “It’s written on the stars. I wrote your name, my love.”
 
And so she follows the flow of the river, faithfully locking her eyes in the waters' steepness. She gently brushes the cold river, and so it quietly blushes at the thought of her.

That someone like her was cared for enough by her own artist.

The sun was so blind
Can't see in front
Of me
Good thing
Morndreaming
Exists
I missed my turn
And still you made it
Into my heart