Obscure

She walks a path her pen chooses, and I wonder why the noises are louder than her words. Still, she whispers to herself, one more line, and the voices may fade. She is beautiful— not only in form, but in utterance. You feel it: what she carries is divine. She seems obscure, or maybe I just do not know her well. Yet what little I know is enough to write epistles in her honour.