Eden

She collects souls to be their shepherd, to keep them — and their short lives — safe. All moments, catalogued in the chaos and cosmos. She watches them thrive. Her curiosity appears as wit, sharp with double entendres, an intelligence cloaked in playful tongues. She heals wounds that leave invisible scars. She wraps her mind around others’ worries and offers another way — a kinder path, a pulse of love to all the sick, grieving, deprived, and suffering souls. She is the world’s mystical mother, matriarchal in her tenderness. Her questions don’t harm — they heal. She opens hearts like a spiritual surgeon, then stitches them back together with hope and dreams. Her love knows no limits. She sits as the universe’s mouthpiece. And I love her. But still I sit and reflect — how, surrounded by voices, she may feel alone. And I hunger to be her voice when she is calm. She is ethereal, like holy smoke rising from a sea of darkness. The light — it saved her. And it burns.