ARTIST. GRIOT. ACTIVIST

She walks where time forgets its name,
barefoot in the hush between stars and soil.
Her eyes hold opposites—
sunrise and shadow,
longing and knowing.
Born of feather and flame,
she is the hush before an answer,
the ache before a song.
She is not trying to be seen—
she already is.
Her gown is stitched with stories
she has not told,

each thread humming with memory,
each fold a prayer
for the woman she’s still becoming.
She bends to touch the water—
not to see her reflection,
but to remember
how it feels
to ripple the world
just by being still.
Some call her mystic.
Some call her mystery.
But she calls herself
home.

(I am not who I was. I am not yet who I will be. But I walk between
those selves with grace. And I remember: Home is not a place. It is a return to truth.)

Peace begins with me.

©Naan Pocen 2025