“She had a precious light in her heart, that kept him alive in the moments he desired death, she was his savior.”

The white pure sheet of her life had thunderous and royal purple lavendar pride with a golden heart.

Moon and stars are what my dark sky has felt but with the story love of his existence.

Moon and stars are what my dark sky has felt but with the story love of his existence.

She is a woman that stands upright with her hand on her sword and pen that protects the innocent with her courage.

Her stressed soul had windows of crushing shards of wilting petals screaming for life.

Everyday she spoke to her souls filled with tranquility until it bloomed fragrant vibes.

It has taken her countless lessons to let go the thorns that scarred her brutally.

You aren’t a caterpillar but a steel sheilded butterfly so roam freely outside your cocoon.

She is a woman, bold and courageous and a goddess.

She is a woman with courage flowing in her veins that shield the loved ones with all her might.

She wraps her cleansed mirrored soul around the filthy dirty lungs to free them towards sanity.

She is the fertile earth that blooms rubies with her blood and honor.

She breathes with ease only when she knows that her core is special just like her existence.

She wished he was her essence but he wasn’t even worth to breathe the air she lived in.

She is a voice that can never be silenced, even if her echoes are transformed from blood and ink to rare gems.

She is the guardian of innocent souls.

Love is life, if it is not death.

You do not immortalize the lost by writing about them. Language buries, but does not resurrect.

Every man’s last day is fixed. Lifetimes are brief, and not to be regained, for all mankind. But by their deeds to make their fame last: that is labor for the brave.

Your mind is your predicament. It wants to be free of change. Free of pain, free of the obligations of life and death. But change is law and no amount of pretending will alter that reality.

In an artist’s life, death is perhaps not the most difficult thing.

You do not immortalize the lost by writing about them. Language buries, but does not resurrect.

Every man’s last day is fixed. Lifetimes are brief, and not to be regained, for all mankind. But by their deeds to make their fame last: that is labor for the brave.

Your mind is your predicament. It wants to be free of change. Free of pain, free of the obligations of life and death. But change is law and no amount of pretending will alter that reality.