The Poet Child

The Poet Child

Born from ink, not flesh nor bone,

a child who scribbled worlds alone.

Her cradle rocked on rhyming waves,

her lullabies were ghostly hymns.

She whispered words the stars could hear,

they flickered close, then burned in fear.

Her tiny hands held quills like wands,

she summoned storms, she snapped their bonds.

No mother’s voice, no father’s name,

just riddles played in shadow’s game.

She sketched the moon, then made it weep,

she wrote the sea—then sank it deep.

A poet child, too strange to tame,

her stories spoke, but none remained.

For every verse she dared to weave,

the world would shift

then disbelieve.