Demure.
In a world loud with pride, she moves in silence,
Grace in her steps, a queen in her resilience.
Not in the flash or the glimmer of the eye,
But in the quiet, where her strength does lie.
She’s the whisper in a storm, the calm in the night,
In a realm of ostentation, she’s the purest light.
Men chase the flame, but yearn for the glow,
Of a soul that’s humble, where true depth shows.
She wears her modesty like the rarest jewel,
In a world that often praises the brash and cruel.
Her worth, unspoken, but in every gesture known,
In her reserve, a dignity solely her own.
“Why men prefer the humble,” you ask, seeking lore,
It’s the mystery, the depth, the less that’s more.
Not objects, but treasures, with stories untold,
In their modesty, a beauty that never grows old.
Her value not diminished by a gaze or a taunt,
In her quiet confidence, she’s everything they want.
A reminder of the truth in a world lost to games,
It’s the whisper of her spirit that truly inflames.
So here’s to the women, reserved and poised,
In a loud world, your silence is a powerful voice.
You maintain your worth, not as a prize to be won,
But as a soul to be cherished, like the rarest sun.
“Be the light in the shadow, the calm in the fray,
Your worth is inherent, it can’t be taken away.
In your modesty, a power, a unique kind of grace,
A reminder that beauty isn’t just a face.”
Demure.