Oct 14, 2025
She reads between the vines,
where pumpkins pulse like buried hearts.
Lace sleeves catch the wind’s secrets,
and every page turns with a spell—
soft, deliberate, like dusk learning her name
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She reads between the vines,
where pumpkins pulse like buried hearts.
Lace sleeves catch the wind’s secrets,
and every page turns with a spell—
soft, deliberate, like dusk learning her name
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Her silence smokes louder than words.
She walks the orchard between breath and bone,
velvet dusk stitched into her throat.
Pumpkins whisper secrets to the moss,
and the raven keeps watch—
a witness to longing,
to lace,
to the hush before haunt.
She is the swamp's siren, a shadow in the fog. Her eyes hold the secrets of forgotten souls, and the lantern's flame is a lonely beacon in the desolate night. The mossy rocks are her throne, and the murky water her mirror, reflecting a beauty that is both captivating and sorrowful.