She rises where the moon kneels low,
a silver witness pressed to darkened tide.
Water remembers her before the world does—
each ripple bending like a whispered vow.

Thorns crown her not as punishment,
but as proof she endured becoming.
Roses burn at her temples,
red against night, blood against memory.

Jewels hang like constellations
mapped along her spine,
every chain a story carried, not carved,,
every glint a truth learned in silence.

She is not waiting.
She is standing after.
After loss, after gods turned away,
after love learned how to survive in shadow.

The sea does not claim her.
The moon does not command her.
She belongs only to the space she occupies—
where beauty and power meet
and refuse to apologize.