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Artist
The Girl Who Can Manifest Her Own Foretold Fortune
She plucks fate like a thread
from the humming loom of the air—
a filament of gold, a tremor of violet,
spooling around her fingers
into shapes not yet named.
The future arrives in flashes:
a flicker of wings in a teacup,
the echo of a laugh not yet laughed,
the scent of rain on pavement
where no cloud has passed.
She does not read—she rearranges.
The cards are not prophets but props,
the stars not guides but glimmers
caught in the net of her blinking.
What is foretold bends like light
through the prism of her want.
Sometimes, the weight of it cracks her—
a fortune too bright to hold,
a destiny that scorches her palms
like a coin fresh from the mint.
She learns: not all that is possible
should be pulled from the ether.
And yet—
she cannot stop.
The world is soft as clay when she presses,
yielding as a dream upon waking.
She spins her tomorrows from the static,
weaves her warnings from the wind,
until the line between prophecy and desire
is nothing but a sigh,
a hush,
a breath
tied to a wish
she hasn’t yet chosen
to release.
