The half-done perfection
She brewed a storm. Then stopped - too loud.
She nearly spoke to her dead crowd.
She painted flames across the sky
Then paused. “Wait, why? I'm kinda shy.”
She wrote a curse in dragon's tongue,
But yawned before the last word sprung.
She tossed the scroll into the soup
It sparked, then fizzled in a loop.
“Today,” she said, “I'll raise the dead!”
Then found a book on bread instead.
Kneaded air, forgot the yeast
Declared, “This ghost-loaf is a feast!”
A crown half-summoned on her brow.
A phoenix egg? Eh, already...lost it now.
She tried to turn a frog to gold
Then changed it to a... slightly warmer toad.
Things happen, so what now?
Potions? Labeled, bottled, neat.
Untouched. Except the one with feet.
She started THIRTEEN grand campaigns
All scattered through enchanted drains.
She almost wed a demon prince.
He brought her wine. She hasn't seen him since.
She nearly ruled a crystal throne
But tripped and claimed (ooops!) a garden gnome.
And in the back (stage left, alone),
Stands Gervė, soul of solid stone.
He cheers her wand (which she again misplaced),
He loves her deeply, with great taste.
He claps when she begins to chant
Then watches her forget she can’t.
He writes her songs, she hums one bar,
Then swaps the tune for “La La La.”
Oh, brilliant mess! Enigma queen!
She’s everything and might-have-been.
Each spark, half-cast, each dream, half-said
She's a goddess of the half-undead.
And still Gervė, her one-man choir,
Fans the smoke of each failed fire.
He sighs, “She’s close this time, I feel!”
While she’s balancing a cabbage wheel...
So let her rule or let her sleep
Either way she doesn't know promises how to keep
She’s sowing maybes far too deep.
But never doubt: her loyal man
Will love each almost-magic plan.