I wear no skin yet bruise at dusk, I swallow stars and leak out blue. Birds borrow me without a sound, Storms write their tempers on my face. I’m always overhead, never held.

I am NOT what you'd expect to hear from an owl, For what purpose or reason do I lack a single vowel? Oh, English will be cruel if you let her, As for me I only have three, and two could be silent letters.

You might recognise me as a chip brand, Or a type of drum you'll hear in a band, When a stove is lit under me, I can shriek and shout Or what the pot was hypocritical about

I make important things stand out, on your face or in your notes.

In the land of stripes, I roam with grace, a horse-like creature in a monochrome race. My attire is nature's barcode, a walking piano with no sound to unfold.