They said that she had fairy skin
And cinnamon dusted hair,
A sleepy countenance, a ragged demeanour;
They said “she’s never quite..there."
Her fingers, when I saw her
Were tangled into a wreath.
Their fragile veins seemed about to snap
But she sat so calmly in her seat.
What a waste of a fine young lady, I say,
As she muses at the sky;
An excess of poetic form
Has made her mad and shy.
And yet I harbour a fascination
For one so truly lost,
Who cannot tell real from dreams,
Who nightmares do accost.
And oh, what a beautiful sight
To see one stay so naive.
At least, I say, I’m not the kind
To pin my heart up on my sleeve.
And once again the monotony
Of another day rushes past,
And the sea inside ****** the back of my eyes, I see
An exquisite pointillism of stars.
Maybe she’s the one with the luck of the Irish,
And I’m just a manifestation of routine.
She’s awake and full of fireworks,
And I’m just half asleep.
Jul 8, 2013
Jul 8, 2013 at 4:43 AM UTC
They said that she had fairy skin
And cinnamon dusted hair,
A sleepy countenance, a ragged demeanour;
They said “she’s never quite..there."
Her fingers, when I saw her
Were tangled into a wreath.
Their fragile veins seemed about to snap
But she sat so calmly in her seat.
What a waste of a fine young lady, I say,
As she muses at the sky;
An excess of poetic form
Has made her mad and shy.
And yet I harbour a fascination
For one so truly lost,
Who cannot tell real from dreams,
Who nightmares do accost.
And oh, what a beautiful sight
To see one stay so naive.
At least, I say, I’m not the kind
To pin my heart up on my sleeve.
And once again the monotony
Of another day rushes past,
And the sea inside ****** the back of my eyes, I see
An exquisite pointillism of stars.
Maybe she’s the one with the luck of the Irish,
And I’m just a manifestation of routine.
She’s awake and full of fireworks,
And I’m just half asleep.
