I know a girl with diamond-eyes and apple-cheeks and kitten-smiles.
The sign says stop but I don't believe everything I read.
When she wakes, a flash of soft yellow must flood her room,
like silent church bells on a raucous winter morning.
When she moves, her wings must sing like the first sunray
as it kisses a broken leaf, hidden beneath the oak's mighty tusk.
Such a tender, precious blade of grass,
not to be stepped upon, but guarded and nurtured -
protected from wild meteor showers that pummel
such jewels into dust that coalesces into mediocrity.

The sign says stop, but I won't believe everything I read.
Red smoke and blue fire and pale water and bright dust.
Seven blends, with caps tossed accross an empty room.
What are these fires that burn beneath her tender layers?
Her nature is revealed, without consent, by laughter, twists
and the anguished sighs of a wounded star, forgotten and unseen.
She glides through my thoughts, kindness erupting
like a hurtling sphere brushing a lonely survivor,
whispering "please fall down" with a kiss and a wink
and a smile full of dreams and unfathomable promises.

The sign says stop, but I cannot believe everything I read.
If only she would stay, to drink a new wine from this dented glass,
holding offerings of fire-lit nights and heartfelt melodies.
She leaves too soon, I think.