The Silent of Her Muse

She was a child born of silence. Neglect is formless once uttered. The tight thin lips, the cold glare of a distant mother's stare. Father always disappearing behind closed doors - and so, she wrote, wrote in the diffused nature of the silently hurt. She made no noise, her pen scratching the air in a sound-proof room she had built from cemented memories. Fame found her, her works were published at first here and there then within the halls of a public posterity. When she died, she entered the silence lamenting the words she had not screamed from the rooftops, while she mused ever so softly in a darkly muted basement.