She was a shy, sensitive young woman with smaller hands and lean, long fingers that beautifully graced the pencil as she wrote poetry, or rather, the whispers of her heart within a small leather notebook, whenever she became curious, the dark, lustrous brown eyes would glimmer in fascination as the entire world would become you, she was not particularly beautiful though her heart was pure, remaining hidden through her poetic worlds as though listening to classical music, the streams of violins are the winds tousling her midnight hair as a dreamer of the night, her quiet demeanor and depth in thought hide her way in understanding and shaping a person or only musing about the simple beauty of the moment, she would see the stars while everyone walked past them and appreciate what others could not see at first glance, as the light once hidden among the leaves she was noticed by the one who had came closer, while placing her palm on her fair face when thick in listening, the painted portrait of the female poet always held her cup of warm tea, content in her recluse until there was a gaze upon her, opening a glimpse into her soul.
Note: A newly updated version of the poem
