Her memories were woven soft, In the fabric of ballads…
They say wield a brush because you can, And stroke your days away…
Flecks of light dust, The ivory of her mane…
There it was, again. The smile that bled…
The butterfly smiles, Bathing in her spotlight…
Our eyes riveted in an, Unescapable gaze
Maybe you’re a diamond you let your experiences shape you…
Beautifully decorated, For each their own…
