It strikes -- the scorching sun. Her hair is messed up in a bun. The habit. The veil. It was a chain. She walked passed-- Dashed on the abbey, Where she belonged. Down past the silent corners. Deep inside the high-unending walls. The deafening silence, The mute languages. Secrets. Enigmas. Paradigms. Hides the very thoughts of her shadows. Her history, Her memory, Her identity. Alas! Her name will forever be a mystery. Buried secretly in a discreet grave-- Wasted. Rotting. Concealed by the glowing epitaph. Unsheathe-- Destroyed she will be.
Unspoken words are the ones that are screaming out of one’s eyes.