MGT Iris

She Who Listen in Color

She dwells beneath the iris flare,

Where silent hues begin to speak -

  A breath, a pause, a softened stare,

The voice of those too tired to seek.

   Her cloak is stitched from petal light,

   Each thread a tale she dared to keep.

She listen not to judge what's right,

But cradles ache in colors deep.

Red for the hope that grief ignites,

Green for the piece she leaves behind,

Blue for the words she lifts to flight -

The ones no world could ever find.

And though her name is not confessed,

Her kindness carves its shape in rest.