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You do not know me
You are far away from me
Yet still I love you
What is the purpose of this?
This question has no answer
maybe it was me,
was it my very presence,
stopping you from light,
The light that gave you reason,
to finally live.
lisagrace Jul 20
I stare at my feet
My home where I should be
Magic is dead here
Alagaësia calls me
I speak in the ancient tongue
The fourth and final poem in my Inheritance Cycle-inspired tanka series.
A quiet return to what still calls me—magic, language, and the self I thought I’d lost.
If you’ve read any part of this journey, thank you. It means more than you know.

– Lisa 🐉
lisagrace Jul 20
The ink fades to beige
A voice pulls me from the page
But the boughs and hills remain
Desperately, I muster
My eyes, alight—brisingr
The third poem in my four-part tanka series inspired by The Inheritance Cycle.
That moment when you're pulled back to reality, but part of you still lingers in the story.
The magic stays with you—even after the book closes.
lisagrace Jul 19
He hunts in the Spine
The woods erupt warmth and light
The deer bolts, affright
A blue stone? No – dragon’s egg
She, Saphira Bjartskular.
The second in a four-part tanka series inspired by The Inheritance Cycle.
A quiet moment before everything changes—fear, fate, and something ancient stirring in the Spine.

Stay tuned for the next piece in the series.
lisagrace Jul 19
Dust motes catch the light
The world sighs in shades of grey
My hand reaches it—
A blue cover, curled edges
One sharp breath, I turn the page
The first in a four-part tanka series inspired by The Inheritance Cycle.
This one marks the beginning: the moment when everything changes.

Watch for the next poem in the collection if you like—each follows a different stage of the journey.
LL 1d
they keep promising
that flowers would grow around
this wreckage — even
if a garden bloomed
, this car
just won't run
                            the same
                                               again
2015/115
I still turn and look.
I hear her in the whispers
From years of instinct.
Her spirit might not haunt me
But ev'ry shadow is hers.
Poem for Lily.
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