To the Girl who Can not BE

She is differnet then all the rest. Same lies or new words, ones with meaning. It's not her face the filles my mind, but her luagh mixing with my own. She's not the siren calling from the rocks neither is she the temptest in saten red. To have never seen his face makes it harder, for he could be anyone. Good, bad, or apathic to universal situations. She is not the book that does not wish to be read, nor is she the play that's not to be seen. No she is the book being read by another, the sold out show. The reader has to be good for her wisdome is absolute. It can't be willfully hoped for the blatent down fall of one from one state to another.

Sleep demands my soul