There was something about the dreamer.
Paint in her hair, no care,
The world vast and empty but she fills
Voids with pastel static, words drip
From matte lipstick. Panic
Never takes air from her lungs,
She knows she belongs. A firefly in
A pillowed fog, not smog, but subtle
With tea latte sweetness, kept warm on
The mosaic countertop filled with
Broken glass, no longer shattered, together,
Making beauty out of severed past.
She will last through creation, motion
Lunging to brightened staircases.
She faces dilemmas by the dozen,
And will never be forgotten.