She has a habit of wandering off,
Whilst being in one place.
She'd be staring out the window
Manipulating what she saw,
Into what she wanted it to be.
She'd say, mid mindless gazing,
Only it was rarely for food
But rather for exploration,
Discovery and experiences.
Her soul starved
Of authentic auras that warm you,
Of colliding chords that form aching symphonies,
Of chaotic creations by everyone and anyone,
Of galaxies that we are made from,
Of the beauty she longs to see.
And in these times,
Where her mind is everywhere else,
I imagine she is there where she belongs
With her chaotic people,
The Galaxy she is deserving of.
May you be filled with life, my dear.