She is an open book,
Written in a language,
Long forgotten.
She is a well of secrets,
A keeper to your
sands, of time.
She is the unsure tune,
Your piano sings to,
Obscure lines.
She is a hollow reed,
Yet full to the brim
With sugar sweet.
She is the clouds blue,
Do gently tread, lest
You fall flat down.
She is in the league
Of unfathomable few
One of a kind.
She is a tragedy
Opaque obliquity,
A distinctive shine.
She is the madness
You seek within, but
Can never find.
She is the storm, raging,
Not in your grasp,
Never thine.
She is the simpleton
Extravagant exception,
A crack in time.
A handsome betrothal
Unto the subconscious,
Seek not her, but delve in
And disappear, in her rhyme.
