Juliet died at my hand, when cold air hits your skin or eyeballs it can feel like thousands of tiny versions of me are piercing you.

Oh my stars! Tiny traveler in a pod, with dreams of sprouting far and wide. Often found in Granny's stew, warming the soul like a trusted quilt on a chilly night.

I block your vision, but you need me to see. What am I?

The more famous I am, the worse I get at my job. What am I?

Can't be donned, though it may seem, I've been out-grown, torn loose my seams, Crumpled, I hope, though left behind, The one I cowled, My dreams will find...