She stands at the corner, wrapped in ink,
Her skin a canvas where stories sink.
Words weave through her veins so tight,
A walking headline, bold yet light.
.
Her voice—printed in serif and space,
A chronicle lost in time’s embrace.
Torn at edges, yet crisp and true,
A testament to all she knew.
.
In her hands, a paper burns,
Flames consume as pages turn.
Yesterday’s truth, today’s demise,
Smoke and cinders cloud her eyes.

She reads the words that once had weight,
Now curling up beneath their fate.
The ink dissolves, the letters fade,
A history lost in embered shade.
.
She, too, has been read and tossed,
Folded, crumpled, purpose lost.
Passed through hands that barely cared,
Her worth weighed, her words compared.
.
Yet in the ashes, fierce and bright,
Glows the ember of her light.
For stories burn but never die,
They rise again in a new sky.
.
She is more than fleeting news,
More than ink in blackened hues.
Though fire eats the past she knew,
She stands, reborn, in morning dew.