"You lack a soul," they say with scorn,
But their words like arrows, whoosh past, missing their mark.
For in my heart, a fire burns bright,
With passion that will not decay.

Do they not know that I am the storm,
The lightning cracking in the night?.
Aster, I am the ocean's wild embrace,
The crashing waves in their chaotic race.

Myrnin, a specter of misunderstood grace,
My soul, a tempest deep and vast.
Whispering secrets to the moon,
Yet shrouded in this lonely place.

My dreams are painted in dark hues,
But they burn with a fiery glow.
Snow, I am the phoenix in disguise,
Rising from the embers of their scorn.

They say my heart is ashen and cold,
But it holds the heat of a thousand suns.
Brightly, it burns, deeply, in the depths of my being.
Unseen by the blinded ones.

So call me soulless if you must,
Your words are but a fleeting breeze.


© MyrninAsterSnow