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?

I travel the world but have no legs, I carry your words without any pegs. I can bring joy or deliver despair, And reach you quickly from anywhere.

Should I collapse, Steel yourself, For agony of defeat. Upon the brow, In burdened back, To each I come complete. In satin cast, Or climbing blooms, Devout peck, two shall meet.