She was fashioned by darkness, cruel and twisted, a patchwork of poetry and song. 

She walks among hateful demons and sorrowful, weeping ghosts, leaving no footprints in the spongy moss.

Nurtured by warmth, she is bathed in stardust and starlight, a chaotic creation of mother earth.

She lives atop a mighty tree, but crawls and hides beneath elegant patterns, furs, and fringe.

In her hand she holds wildflowers, beads and buttons, faded pictures of the dead.

Drops of glitter glisten beneath her skin.

Her hands are cold, but her heart is radiant.

She writes of romance and speaks of happiness, but a touch of sadness follows her everywhere she goes.

Always lonely. Always alone.

Her thoughts sit callously on top of one another until they reach the sky; a game of Jenga that continues to climb, but never falls.

She dreams of love and loves to dream.

Always lonely. Always alone.

She writes a poem about someone else, but the words betray her.

She paints her portrait on the page.

Always lonely. Always alone.

See you tomorrow!

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