The Green, Gold, and Red Soul
She writes in green, where morning’s breath still clings
To fern and field, the dew is a whispered psalm.
Her verses sprout wild from roots that she sings,
Each line a leaf, each stanza held in calm.
She dreams in gold, where sun and silence meet,
The hourglass spill its honeyed light on her skin.
Her rhymes are relics time cannot forget,
A gilded hand where memory grows thin.
She bleeds in red, where passion dares to speak,
The ink pulses from her heart to trembling hand.
Her metaphors are fire, fierce and bleak,
A blaze that scorches the frost from every land.
So green she grows, and gold she gives away,
And red she burns, until the page turns grey.
WoPoLi 
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