POETRY – 3TC #MM44

The spotlight didn’t just touch her—
it carved her
from shadow and breath,
chiseling her presence
into something holy,
a gospel of flesh and color.

She stood
like a question no one dared ask,
wrapped in the hush
before a storm breaks.
Every inch of her
was painted tension—
raw, unresolved.

The mic—
old as regret,
bright as memory—
caught the room’s breath
and held it hostage.

This wasn’t performance.
This was ritual.
And the format was fire.

Her voice wasn’t smooth.
It cracked like old vinyl,
ran like rivers
under skin that remembers.
She didn’t reach for notes—
she pulled them
from places too deep for light.

Each syllable
was a wound opening slow.
Each phrase
a letter to the ones
who never came home.

She wasn’t singing.
She was driving
through the dark
with no headlights,
just instinct
and that bruised kind of faith
you only earn by surviving.

Behind her, the world dissolved—
a smear of color and motion,
like God forgot to finish the painting.
But she stayed in focus,
a woman-shaped flame
dancing at the edge of coming undone.

Her intent was not to be heard—
but to be felt.
To set fire
to the silence
you carry in your chest
and call it strength.

And somewhere,
between the grit of her voice
and the way the air held its breath,
you stopped being a listener.

You became the echo.