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.