She saunters the homes of the pondering;
Unsealing the shaft of ideas.
She consoles and crushes;
She fondles and flays.
She’s an artist;
Sketching tranquility,
Painting turmoil and dilapidation.
She is a solitary;
Never necessitating amity,
Never relinquishing her obscurity.
She draws near to those
Whose hearts are enmeshed
In the bias of another;
Or those whose hearts are
Grappling under their own disorder.
She doesn’t perceive her own power;
Young florets she can tweak and smother.
In her inception she finds humor;
As she can also transform a young floret
Into an exquisitely blossoming flower.
Though she’s never uttered a thought;
She gives every query an answer.
Her faculty will never be fathomed
By neither you, me or her.
Her search for vehemence is ageless;
Her ornate alias is silence.

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