She's the petite queen of the midnight
hour.
She won't stick out in a crowd.
But, in solitude she flowers
Her careful pinky carefully wrapped around my vision.
Her looks away,
often in indecision.
Her tip-toe dance of plains of desire.
My muse, my fate,
my heart felt desire.
Her, hanging around the wrong man, not me.
Her conservative clothes leaving just enough to see.
Her strength resides in herself,
looking within herself.
Timid eyes can try, but not succeed in hiding her wealth.
This passing crush I will not approach.
I have dreamt our life,
and it ended with the sweet warm bliss that will make tomorrow's sunshine that
more...