She was born of delicate porcelain
so fragile, yet stone cold.
Even the optimists expected her to break hearts into halves
No woman as sentimental as she
brave, yet naive.

There would be battles between
her heart and mind. Forever.
Immersed within the meaning, her mind fought with reality's shield in hand. Forced to surrender to the heart
cutting deeper with its knife.

Misconstrued by the mirage, she trusted no one, so she trusted nothing.
Even the light at the end of the tunnel may lead unto another
darker than the first. She claims no pessimism
and she is not at all afraid of loss; loneliness; literature's lessons on how to simply conquer the fear of letting go.

No. No feeling is simply that without reasoning. what is
one without the other? Never simply two, but
Three. Like the tale of all good things to come
Aligned by the sequence of belief, of fate, of miracles all simply
Leveled by reality. Stone cold like that of The

Winter until time turns it to The Spring, morphing into The summer.
Only to leave her stranded within the mirage of the Fall. She forgets no one. She forgives them all
Made by a woman. Sentimental since the beginning. This is the story of
A woman born into a
Never ending series of falling in lust