Her Soft whispers in colorless hues, Bare canvas brushed in warmth and muse. A quiet storm, a steady grace, Each line drawn soft, no lines misplaced. Her figure speaks of gentle light, A dance of shadow, dark and bright. A subtle power in repose, She wears the softness of a rose. Eyes closed or open, one can’t tell, An endless dream she weaves so well. The world fades out around her form, In stillness found, in silence born. She’s flesh and spirit, earth and air, Both vulnerable and fiercely rare. In muted tones she breathes, she stirs— The canvas holds the soul of Her.