Writers 
WHERE THE PETALS FALL
She stood beneath a tender sky,
where golden sunlight softly danced,
and petals drifted through the air
like little dreams that had escaped.
Her emerald hair moved with the breeze,
each strand carrying a quiet story,
while violet eyes held distant thoughts
too deep for ordinary words.
She raised her hands toward the light,
as if greeting something unseen,
something gentle, something warm,
something she had waited for.
Around her, spring seemed alive,
green leaves whispering secret songs,
pink blossoms falling like promises,
and sunlight resting on her skin.
Yet behind her peaceful face,
there lived a heart that knew the rain,
a heart that had survived the cold
and still remembered how to hope.
The bandages upon her arm
were evidence of battles
she had fought without applause.
She did not need a crown,
nor a shining name.
Her strength lived in softer things:
in patience, courage, and believing.
Perhaps the world would never know
how many storms she had endured.
Perhaps nobody would understand
the tears hidden behind her smile.
Still, she looked toward the light,
letting petals fall into her hands,
choosing beauty despite the scars,
choosing tomorrow despite yesterday.
And in that moment,
she became more than a dream.
She became her promise:
to heal, to grow, and bloom again.
