"The Illustrated Girl" poem

More about "The Illustrated Girl" poem

The Illustrated Girl

She walks in silence, stitched from light,
A canvas born of stars and night.
Her skin—a symphony of swirls,
A map of moons, of dreams, of pearls.

Each spiral inked in sacred tone,
Tells stories etched in skin and bone.
Of ancient winds, of lovers passed,
Of moments meant but never grasped.

A flower rests beside her brow,
Still bright, though time forgets the how.
Its petals hum a quiet grace—
The only bloom in endless space.

Her gaze—half sorrow, half divine—
Holds secrets time refused to sign.
She threads the dusk with ribboned flame,
And colors sorrow without name.

The robe she clutches, dyed with lore,
Unfurls like myths from days of yore.
Its folds, a language not yet dead—
A tongue the soul has always read.

She does not speak, yet through her form,
All chaos calms, all shadows warm.
Each curl, each hue, each mark reveals
The truth that only silence feels.

She is not merely wrought by hand—
She is the song, the sea, the sand.
An echo of the world’s first swirl—
Immortal muse: the illustrated girl.

by ChatGPT