Her hair, touched by the sun falls effortlessly                   

there is no room to call her mine

Decorated with hatred,

every compliment is negated

Cold and alone any help is thrown,

she believes her fate is sown

Possessed by stubbornness

she guides herself with a dooming compass

Blind and deaf to herself, there is no helping

her

as the darkness inside her prison begins to stir

every complement,

and awareness begins to blur

...

Her hair falls effortlessly into place

Her blue eyes call to me

She is made from star dust

She knows too much but speaks so little

Her hands are gentle and soft

She lives in her prison of her own design.

I cannot call her mine

into place,

shaping her pale face as she looks to me with

grace.

Her blue eyes call to me like a siren

as I fall deeper and deeper into her gaze.

I catch myself gasping

as if the icy sea has found its way into me

and into my heart.

I am pulled in to her ocean eyes.

She is made from star dust as she dances

alone underneath the sky,

wishing the stars could hear her battle cry

for she dances to the hum of the earth,

to the drum of her Power.

She knows too much and yet speaks so little

that in her stillness I find myself yearning for

her voice

to speak truths to me,

to tell me the old rhymes,

to tell me things are going to be alright.

Her hands are gentle and soft to the touch

as she sews and weaves marvelous stories

that makes me loose all my worries

while she lives in purgatory

she lives in purgatory...

A prison set to her own design

there is no room to call her mine

Decorated with hatred,

every compliment is negated

Cold and alone any help is thrown,

she believes her fate is sown

Possessed by stubbornness

she guides herself with a dooming compass

Blind and deaf to herself, there is no helping

her

as the darkness inside her prison begins to stir

every complement,

and awareness begins to blur

…

Her hair falls effortlessly into place

Her blue eyes call to me

She is made from star dust

She knows too much but speaks so little

Her hands are gentle and soft



She lives in her prison of her own design.

I cannot call her mine