A soul that doesn’t believe it’s made of stardust,

and so it searches for a home

in every crease of a fingerprint,

smudged between strokes of brush buildings

and canvas walls.

A soul that wields light and dark

as if their veins run with paint;

also known as






A soul that drinks from rainwater

and fountain pens,

knowing that one has kissed the sky

and the other has wet the page—

and isn’t sure

which one is which.

A soul that knows stories are

etched into constellations

that it has yet to find;

also known as






A soul that doesn’t know

how to give itself a name,

but will let its hands bleed out

before it stops trying.

A soul that has tired of its aching shoulders—

the world is a heavy carry-on.

A soul that hears “weightless

whispering from whatever leak of creativity

has begun pumping lifeblood with its heart;

also known as


human being.




A soul that has been crafted

with intentional hands,

and in turn crafts the beating of its heart

with every tool it can find—

even if they are dried lilac branches

compared to budding cherry forests.

Petals painted over scars

are petals still.

A soul that is climbing toward its Creator

with every pulsing art form in its rib cage;

also known as


child of the King.

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