She’s a dragon hidden in the mist; an ancient that lives in dreams. Her fire burns her name on granite like hellish sulfur plummets midair. Her breastplate flags the warrior in her as the enemy shrinks against its crystallized beams. Her styles are polymorphous and premium, she’s the pauper ruptured from the few like a flower ready to bloom; ready to burst. Her pen can be a spear or a baby born. Her paper a net or a bedspread; pristine and roseate. Her mind seeks the uninhabited and rejoices the unique. Her works can be a disease, an impairment or a medicament for timeless pain and possibilities. Yes. She claims to be her own poet. The poet who poops her words out and sells them like pepperoni pizza. The poet who defies old architectures but respects history and etymology. The poet who makes philosophers and classic-romantic poets her idols but refuses to worship them. The poet who listens to heavy metal rock music and behaves like a cutsie puppy. The poet who after learning the secrets of kama sutra practices more as in an improv. The poet who treats herself like a cling wrap on a miserable day. The poet who conducts a hot pursuit operation in fiction and in reality. The poet who is deep enough to swim in her ocean. The poet who trades in but principled. The poet who dresses her art to meet the Queen of England. The poet who buys the smallest memento there is in the world and wear it like it’s hot. The poet who writes to Earth and tattoos its reply in her heart. The poet who chooses to believe in the magic of infusing colours to every footprints of depression. The poet who dwells in her books and comes out full like Alice in Wonderland. The poet who lives everytime she dies. The poet who makes love to her passion and carves its multitudes as a record of her lust and freedom. The poet who brings a dagger with a sheath as her insignia. The poet who need not be saved but saves. Simply, she is that poet.