“free verse indigo child”

I am the whisper blue,  
ribboning through cloud and question—  
mother calls me  
her indigo child,  
her sky-wrapped what-next,  
her why-do-you-dream-with-eyes-wide-open—

I taste the color between  
violet and midnight,  
a shade you don’t find in box or rulebook.  
I build paper boats from your old beliefs  
and launch them into the dusk,  
hoping the wind will show mercy and  
the water will remember their names.

I carry the ache of ancient things—  
a compass in my palm that spins  
toward tomorrow,  
pulled by the gravity of everything unseen.

The world tells me Sit still—speak softly—  
march the line,  
but I have galaxies in my pockets,  
a secret song in my marrow  
that refuses to march anywhere  
but toward light,  
toward the blue hour after sunset,  
where truth sounds like wild cicadas  
and the edges of possibility shiver in indigo.

Let me run—  
let me keep inventing the language  
for wonder,  
for how it feels to stand on the cusp  
of answers  
with nothing but hope and a sky  
painted just for wandering  
indigo children like me.

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