You pass by everyone in the world
And people say hello.
They talk to you, but you just feel
Soft brush strokes on your skin.

Everyone moves by,
Dabbing the paint on my canvas;
A streak, then moving on,
All of them've done but one.

Her eyes brighten the night,
Pushing the moon that blocks the sun.
Her eyes do blossom bright,
Opens her home to those with none.

She charges full speed across the room,
A bucket of black in hand.

Her brush, held like a claymore sword

Against the canvas, it rams.

Oh vivid, the streak, the stroke of black,
Against the dull grey void!
None have matched what this girl has done,
As she strikes against the sky.

All my life, things barely touch
What I share from within.
Little words came out of the girl,
Yet her mark will live forever.