She is fire in silence, a storm in porcelain;
she shields those she loves, though her guard lets wolves in.
She carries their burdens, she bleeds when they fall,
she gathers her sorrows and cradles them all.

She trusts the mirages that shimmer, then fade;
she misses the kind faces that never betrayed.
Her lantern burns steady, yet she covers its glow,
afraid of the judgment the world might bestow.

The world carved her doubts like a chisel through stone,
taught her to question the glow that’s her own.
So she wears a mask stitched with ribbons of fear,
while the ones who see clearly stand quiet, yet near.

She hunts for her joy in the glitter of things,
forgetting the fountain her own spirit brings.
She dreams of a love that will never decay,
though people are seasons—they wither, they stay.

She means well, though often her meaning is crossed;
she loves far too blindly; she measures what she’s lost.
Her heart is not wicked, not hollow, not flawed,
just tired of the battles with life and with God.

If only she’d pause, let her own cup be filled,
she’d learn she is worthy, unbroken, still willed.
The world may be cruel, yet she will remain,
a flame that keeps burning through sorrow and rain.

- Neha Sharma