She is my little colorful monster that is free of this world’s norm,
Fond of her garden and her words,
Mumbled many spells for a glass of divinity with wine,
Drenched with some little thoughts for crossing her shiny fords.A creature, that is believed, not meant to live in a body of soil,
So far lesser word has been invented to make jealous of her appearance,
Since a light consumed her before she could eat up all her darkness,
The black cold water of her residue flowing underneath for a love of her inherence.I speak with her often, and occasionally, rather wait for her dismissal,
Just trying to scratch her name onto trunks of the morning and on the bulbs of night,
Pretending gratuitous for the uncared act of love at the edge of books,
She hid her feelings between pages, shall no one discovers! If someone does, it’s her genuine fright.I suppose there is no longer need of my words, as she has seen enough,
Tired wings get to rest for a while which I want to let her lay on my chest,
Sweet memories are made with a pillow, far away from me in her dreams,
Belongings have gone with her, my heart is now home of her crest.