She won't pick up a pen.
Words stand at the exit, shivering at the winter
Outside, unable to compare with the Elysium on the horizon.

So the story goes.

But the tapestries that sit at her fingertips are colossi,
Towering over the rest.
Those bottled-up words are dreams deferred,
Screaming and beating on the glass
To be recognized for what they are:
Prophets of the world that is,
Harbingers of the love that should be.
And still, she sits patiently with the world
Under her telescope, in her corner of the universe
While her heart beats, content to echo beauty onto others;
A Venus with the mirror to the world (brighter because of her).
She is Athena with a placid smile:
Inspiration at the snap of a finger,
Or a shoulder touch.
But she always hugs,
The brilliance in the eyes,
Happy to rest there.

I can only imagine if she wrote and freed her poet's eye.