In the clutch of her hand,
A tool, no broader than a twig
Bleeds - stark ink on white.
With each stroke, the page
Winces, bearing silent witness
To the labor of her heart.
A scrim of words, etched
With the precision of a surgeon,
Or the delicate touch of a thief.
In the canvas of her lines,
A landscape of sorrow and joy,
Mapped in the cartography of sentences.
Here, agony whittled to its essence,
There, happiness thinned to a whisper,
Each pared down to bare-faced clarity.
What alchemy she wields!
To sculpt in space the weight
Of the heart\'s unspoken tremors.
With her pen — an artist;
Charting the deep,
Capturing the fleeting,
The difficult, the ephemeral,
In sentences lucid as a mountain stream,
Clear as sorrow, concise as a knife\'s edge.