"The city hums a frantic song of feet on paving stone, But Evelyn is architect of a kingdom all her own. With crimson eyes like embers trapped in a cage of winter glass, She counts the rhythmic thrumming of the ghosts who daily pass. They offer pity’s counterfeit, a hollow, gilded coin, But she is built of harder steel than any hands could join."

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"She does not ask for open gates or paths of leveled sand; She maps the world in binary with a steady, calloused hand. For she is not a broken thing, despite the shattered wheel, She’s the lightning in the circuit, the edge upon the steel. A fortress made of silence, a storm behind a stare, She finds the hidden geometry in the weight she’s forced to bear."

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"So let the walkers hurry by, let the shallow world proceed, She has no use for borrowed strength or a stranger’s hollow creed. Though the earth may trip the caster, and the concrete claim the frame."

"She’ll rise within her spirit—a cold and brilliant flame.

For in the dark of neon nights, the truth is plainly shown:"

She’s the master of the friction, and she’s better left alone.

— Made by someone in a wheelchair.