Lean were her hands,

Shadowed by an assemblage of dead cells.

A loud mind that sits in silence.

She was like mist,

Conflating herself into thin air,

Unnoticed, still holding the moisture of comfort.

Miles away was she, from her dreams,

The ones, once she boasted aloud.

Far away, was the efflorescence of energy.

She befriended the darkness of the night,

Yet again the dalliance of the moon and morning dew.

She was demure, yet

Her eyes failed to hide the sparkle.

She was like a volcano,

Eager to erupt untold stories.

About to collapse was she,

When the nature played music for her.

The half shadow drifted slowly,

Fell upon her, the rays of realisation.

Those lean hands could create history,

Those dead cells were still half alive.

Passion that could break the silence,

A conflation of dream and reality.

The darkness faded away,

So did the demure once she treasured as a compliment.

Continued to sparkle her chatoyant eyes.

She felt feathers glued to her body,

Slowly lifting the bondage of taboos,

Erupted the passion,

Quenching the thirst of words untold.

And off she flew over the mountains

Fluttering feathers immersed in ashes,

Rock-ribbed for another forest fire.