The Crystal Ball Poet

The Crystal Ball Poet

She writes in smoke, in shattered gleams,

her verses bend like broken dreams.

A crystal ball upon her desk,

swirling whispers, words grotesque.

She does not ink, she does not quill,

her poems birth themselves at will.

Reflections twist in silver haze,

each line shifts, each meaning sways.

The future flickers in her hand,

a rhyme, a phrase, a shifting land.

She scrawls a fate, it comes to be—

erase the verse, the world is free.

Yet once she dared to write her name,

the ball grew dark, the letters flamed.

Now trapped inside her own design,

a ghost of ink, a poet’s spine.