18/11/2025
She Who Wears the Owl
(spoken-word style)
Listen—
in the deep blue hush
where stars are small lanterns
and the moon hangs like a silver wound,
she rises.
Not girl.
Not bird.
Not spirit.
But the place where all three meet
and decide to become one body.
Her hair is twilight unravelling,
violet strands carrying whispers
from every dream she has ever dared to keep.
And through it, a single eye—
sharp as winter,
soft as the first truth spoken aloud.
Above her, the owl rests its face against her crown—
a mask of bone-white wisdom,
guardian of all things unsaid.
Its wings drape over her shoulders
like a cloak woven from the night
before the world was young.
She carries the crescent on her brow,
the mark of those who walk between—
witchborn, windborn,
never entirely belonging
to the ground or the sky.
Feathers wrap her ribs,
blue as deep water,
gold-edged like a spell that worked
the very first time it was spoken.
She is both the hunter
and the thing that cannot be hunted.
She is the secret the stars keep.
She is the silence that teaches you to see.
And if you meet her in the dark,
know this—
she does not come to frighten you.
She comes to remind you
of the part of you
that still remembers
how to fly.
