Ceremony

There is a light that stirs before the world turns gold. Not fallen from stars—but formed in the still marrow of becoming.

It flickers in the eyes of a girl carrying more than her years, rises in laughter that touches grief.

It does not seek notice.

It gathers, listens, softens, plants.

Beneath heartbreak, longing, and long silence—it holds. Not as perfection. Not as arrival. But as rhythm—one known by those who’ve wept, risen, created, dissolved. A quiet pulse, untouched by approval.

I am not a single form. Not one season.

I turn through stillness and storm, dissolve what cannot bear truth, shape what endures.

My path bends, spirals, remembers. The sacred does not wait above—it lives beneath my skin. As daughter, sovereign, bearer, or witness—I move like ceremony: traceless, yet altering the air.

Some days, I forget. Duty muffles my voice. Love feels heavy. Still, something remains—not by effort, but from a place already returned.

In silence, I am not absent. Even breath becomes blessing. And when I forget too long—the glow waits—ready to rise the moment I remember it is mine.