She is seated at the centre of herself
while time rots at her feet.
The clocks melt, you’d think she is careless,
Could it be grief?
Grief, the giant that often has its own mathematics?

Flowers bloom from wreckage
like the body refusing to surrender.
The sky watches her back,
two enormous eyes swollen with knowing,
the curse of women who notice everything.

Butterflies drift through the storm
like fragile thoughts surviving impact.
And there, beyond the noise,
a narrow blade of light:
It could be happiness,
Or maybe peace,
but it definitely is persistence.

The world does not ask,
“Is she well?”
It asks,
“How much can one person carry
before survival becomes an art form?”