Her words a dissembling velvet, she her own amulet.
Her niche neither in ethereal heaven nor aphotic hell.
She was to every nocturne, an aubade.
To every melancholy, a panacea.
Evil eyes followed her strides,
Regardless, by her truth she abides.
Never hath a harsh word escaped her lips.
And hither they were spitting tongues of poison, she trips.
Only to ameliorate in strength and benignity.
Her thoughts an ostensible complexity.
Non-existent was her doppelgänger or facsimile.
For she was solitary, a woman, a child quintessentially.
She was the raging flame, she was the morning dew
She was the mystical ineffable ingenue.