The Silent Canvas

She walked the world with quiet grace,

No ink to trace her soul or face.

While others bore bright marks of flame,

Her skin remained a silent frame.

They called her blank, a ghost, a void,

A story fate itself destroyed.

Yet deep within, the ink lay still,

Awaiting storms, awaiting will.

Each step she took, a trembled beat,

Her canvas bare, her silence sweet.

But time would carve, with shadowed hand,

A hidden script she’d come to stand.

One night, alone, she broke her shell—

A scream the stars could almost smell.

And from that cry, the colors poured,

Like ancient songs the soul had stored.

A bird took flight upon her spine,

Its feathers inked in midnight’s shine.

A tree unfurled across her side,

Its branches stories she would hide.

The stars she’d swallowed in her chest

Now shimmered bright in silent rest.

Her pain, her joy, her loss, her fight—

All etched in ink, now born to light.

They saw her then—not loud, but true,

A living canvas breaking through.

No louder voice, no bolder claim

Than one who blooms despite the shame.

So mark her not by skin once bare—

Her silence was a form of prayer.

And every line she came to own

Was written where the world had grown.