Remain quiet behind the old graveyard gate.
The handles and locks make you think that you’re late,
Yet you’re just in time for the freshest slate—
Resurrection of a girl in the gilded crate.
Approach with caution, beware the emerald flame.
Don’t stare at the cryptids, the beast, the dame.
When the clock strikes midnight, shout out your name.
Watch the shallow grave shake from ancestral shame.
Watch it deepen and widen in quiet rage.
The priests will get butchered with a single page,
But don’t you run—wait for the gilded cage.
Observe her blood-red hair, observe that stunning mage.
A man will ask who put her to early death.
She’ll raise a single brow like it’s a cunning threat,
Then say, “Every captain I’ve ever met,”
Leaving you high and dry, stealing your mind and breath.
The mage will stand up only to fall on her knees.
Never trust your instinct to help the weak.
She’s a traitor tailored for devils and greed.
Someone who knew her said she was the Queen of Peace,
But rising tides filled her lungs with salt water,
Drowned her homes and hopes along with her own father.
As you watch her limbs stiffen up, growing harder,
You’ll question whether she’s a lion or a martyr.
The candles spin in thin air as chants come to be hectic.
Were her eyes made by gods to birth heretics?
Her frame levitates, killing your inner skeptic,
And curses bleach your soul like an antiseptic.
The first rays of sun peek through sacred trees.
Wet ground starts swallowing her bones and dreams,
Until her skin turns to dust, until the fingers freeze.
Some spit on her grave, some tremble like leaves.
The crowds disappear until only two souls remain—
A woman in green, a creature with your own name.
The lines on her face are carved from sheer pain.
Your eyes meet, and her voice spills out like champagne:
“She was forged from stone, rubies, silver, and heat.
Resurrections only haunt those who refuse to leave.
I’m yet to learn that lesson—should’ve let her become me,
Should’ve let her slash throats that claimed to be holy.
I tortured her to entertain the cruel and divine,
Until her name became the butt of a victor’s rhyme.
Here she lies, drowned in words that were never mine.
Here she dies, knowing she was buried alive.”
-Jackie
The Daily Writing of Jackie Wright 