In her third eye, rebirth abounds, yet with each iteration, she inherits the wisdom of her past life. (A gift I wish I could attain for I am born from ashes, yet I have no recollection of who I was before.)
Within her third eye, a flame burns (but does not flicker). Inspiration dances behind those hooded eyes and memories of who she was (predictions of who she is meant to be) inundate her vision.
She, a Queen, by her rightful title has been banished so lowly she had to crawl the pits of hell to escape what a devil called
love.
When she paints and writes, the cosmos dance alive. Birth of phantasm sets forth a cycle of creation. Though she tries to stitch her lips or bargains to black out her dreams, she is nonetheless inspired by all that she sees (with her psychic vision or through the looking glass, same).
When the smoke clears, she sees her reflection and recognizes herself as Creator, a title denied for so many iterations but now compelled to recognize.
(Who is she but a Goddess of birth and rebirth? The one who Creates. A simple sketch or phrase bursts through her mind, and like Zeus, she experiences excruciating pain before birthing something new and unlike what mankind has ever known.)
The galaxy is her parchment paper.
She writes with stars.
Isabelle Palerma 