Blue eyes that hold all dimensions, all emotions kept woven
through them. Eyes that have already read your scarred soul,
that whisper forgiveness throughout your being. Her eyes.
Eyes that imprison the boundaries between flawless beauty
and tattered demons. They rarely drift their precious gaze,
but a few seconds between their realm will tear your list of
longings apart. Her eyes, oh her eyes. 

Brown locks that snarl twisted knots around her treasured
face. Sprouted from her head they fall in to place like
roots, a forest of chaos and one with no boundaries. Her
hair. The deep brown strands that dance golds and reds,
promising a blanket to hide behind and lock the world away.
An endless fulfillment that leaves modern ideals behind, a
unique and timeless form. Her hair, oh her hair.

Honey pallets stroke her outer being, the few scars are her
perfection. The marks are unwound stories revealing the
structure that caused her to blossom. Her skin. Splashes
tell of brown sprinkled carefully over her nose,
highlighting the sunshine filled hours spent being free.
Smooth like a river, her warmth draws you like a siren's
song. A warm glow emanates  over her figure like a dream.
Her skin, oh her skin.

Blue days filled with her wonders, ideas and life spill from
her fingers. Colorless figures seem to sing with vibrancy as
she hovers over blank pages. Her work has their own pasts
and futures, a new force. Her art. The pictures draw you in,
consume you and set your free. Calls to things you were
afraid of, but have always wanted. A slither of hope. Her
art, oh her art.

But she does not see her brilliance, will never see her
brilliance. She sees a hideous husk, living among delicate
flowers. Ugly to everything around her. They speak. The
flowers whisper what their perfection is, how she will never
fit the soil she's called home. They grow in to monsters,
devouring the sad husks and they leave her empty. She didn't
fit, will never fit their ideals. They speak, oh they
speak.

So the girl shuts everything inside. She rarely speaks and
never shows her inner self.  Hiding away and following
without purpose to the endless need; need to be better. She
walks. Her treasure eyes now do not shout colors, they sit
dead and empty giving nothing away. Her hair is no longer an
enchanted realm, but is withered and burned away to fit the
path. It doesn't spew life, but it too is hollow and dead.
The glow is gone from her skin, leaving a masterpiece soaked
in ruin. And regrettably, her talents will never spill over
the paper with an enchanted fire. Tales will never be lifted
to life and shared with needing souls. The girl, though, can
now root among the flowers. All so 'perfect' and all so
dead. But she walks, oh she walks. And I weep silently as I
watch, my roots planted too deep to free her. And she walks,
oh she walks.