Sleep-nestled in perhaps, she unfolds comfortably in-woven tales— cocoons self-spun over-long ago— till head-to-toe rapt, her mind swings to-and-fro, up-tethered with a single strand.
A silky pod it floats some- time jostled by the sing-song voices, of snake-tongued sirens— seeming unattached— that each day drift in, and try to lure her out with their stories of fabled lands and distant faces.
Yet, warmly tucked within her soothing dreams, she sleeps on not eager to join in clockwork worlds or their storybook readings of love. Instead she’ll await her own free-form scenes to unfurl outside on painted wings.
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