They often said she had a soul much older than her years,
a force that dwelled within her heart that conquered all her fears,
a wise and gifted creature born of suffering and strife,
some noble fallen angel who had watched her all through life.
 They often asked how she could paint the colours of the soul,
a talent that she never claimed was in her to control,
a simple canvas painted by her crude and untrained hand,
conveyed both thoughts and feelings the whole world could understand.
 They often sought her guidance on their own attempts at art,
a task she felt unworthy of deep down inside her heart,
a challenge just to find the words each one would like to hear,
unable to relay her thoughts on all they held most dear,
 They often found her hard to fathom when they came to meet,
a sense of something hidden in the shuffling of her feet,
a different personality to what they would expect,
but her work and reputation were enough for their respect.
 They often thought about her when they looked at all she’d done,
a life spent in reflection in the shadow of the sun,
a stranger in the world though never far from any friend,
forever cloaked in mystery until the very end.