Her skin, made of parchment
Her voice, pure as gold
Her veins, full of ink
And a heart full of holes

Her thoughts, scripted in italics
Her words, implied and untold
Her plot, full of loopholes
Her spine, battered and old

I knew that through her battered pages
That had suffered through the years
Only then would she discover
It was well worth the tears

That each hope would pass
On her tongue made of glass