A young girl sits isolated by a window as she witnesses the magical wonders of the realm before her, its deathly cold grip tightening in familiarity. Breaths of life flow from within, like a gentle breeze of freshly picked flowers amid the rustling of every page that gives one oxygen, overlooking the stage filled with characters of whom words gave life to.

Every intricately designed phrase internally monologued with delight. Every paragraphed actors' complexity, with overwhelming actions, could no longer withhold a singular word: Uriel.

Uriel, a fantasy of stability from one's own youthful insanity amid wolves kept in a layer of sheep's clothing. A connection only one could dream in deciphering upon a reality so bleak and tiring. A god of music and harmonized instruments read unto a lover of written delicate harmony. Up from her castle's gate, rained from the heavens, a swift dusty stupor is all that remains. In its place, another name was creatively woven through time: when the Tenth Doctor ruled the screens.

Poetesseract. A construct that left behind intricate designs to walk towards bold creative freedoms she could only dare dream of before, almost forgetting that no alias would grant her such raw unique power only she, herself, could wield.

Welded from clay that would easily tan, hair as black as the night that would lighten closely to the dirt of her eyes, and height equivalent of that to an elf in her mind. As she took form, she was promised a soul that would always courageously ablaze without care.

Elyzabeth, a rushing river fused into a waterfall in all that I am and will always welcome. With a spelling in which others would consider an error, I warn thee to never mistake me for her: Elizabeth. For she is God's promise and oath.

I am not.


© written.in.emeralds