She was quiet, perhaps this was not by choice.

Perhaps the stars talked whispers and murmurs

 And crafted a child made of cosmic dust and

 The edges of our ever expanding galaxy. A child

 Who need not speak in order to express her

Innermost thoughts, but you could tell by the way

She held herself in place. She did so as if her seams

Were sewn from delicate starlight, and any faulty

 Move would shift the fates. Her eyes full of stars,

The very ingredients of her being, laid restless inside

 Of her.  Constantly moving. Constantly changing. The

 Epitome of the martyr archetype- she valiantly

Willed herself to others. She saw

 Death as an aching opportunity. You see, when stars

Die, they do so brilliantly. It is not a quiet death, but a

 Beautiful one. So beautiful that the remnants of what

Once was reform again into something equally breathtaking.

And that was what she was:

Life in death,

Quietness in resonance,

A distant star in the gloaming.

For the cosmos runs in her veins.