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I built the shrine myself, stone by careful stone. Set every grief in order, gave each ghost a throne. I knelt there long enough to learn the shape of chains, mistaking rooms of memory for shelter from the rain. Then I sealed the iron door, left no candle lit. What happened may remain there. I do not live in it. POEM - I BUILT A SHRINE
A highly detailed, surreal fantasy diptych image split vertically down the center, depicting a dramatic transformation of a woman’s journey from despair to liberation. On the left, a dark, gothic, decaying stone corridor lit by flickering candles; a woman with long, dark, wet hair kneels in tattered, dirt-stained off-white robes, hands clasped over her heart, eyes closed in sorrow, heavy black iron chains wrapped around her wrists and trailing across the wet stone floor; behind her, another version of herself walks away down the corridor, draped in the same tattered gown; above, on crumbling stone ledges overgrown with ivy and roses, a third version of her kneels, placing a small stone block onto a growing wall; in the background, three ethereal, ghostly figures of women sit on ornate thrones, shrouded in mist; portraits of the same woman hang on the walls in ornate frames. On the right, a radiant, sun-drenched valley at golden hour; the same woman now stands barefoot in a field of vibrant wildflowers — red poppies, yellow daisies, purple lupines, orange marigolds — her arms outstretched, head tilted
