"The things I know of you"

I know your name drifts soft as dawn— Lane, though you don’t mind what you’re called upon. A poet’s heart, a dreamer’s fire, You build your world from words and wire. You love your songs—sad, deep, divine, You trace the pain in every line. You’ve written ghosts, and tears, and light, You’ve sung through heartbreak in the night. You’re learning math where numbers spin, And languages that sing within— French whispers soft upon your tongue, And Spanish words you’ve just begun. You write of love, of faith, of scars, Of broken homes and healing stars. You turn your hurt to holy art, You bleed through ink straight from your heart. You’ve built a world that’s raw, yet clear, Each poem more than what appears— And all I know, from all you’ve shown, Is Lane’s a soul both wild and grown.