Hair like honey,
Eyes like little green gems hidden deep like treasures.
Fingers long and slender,
fit perfectly to the worn curve in the ivory keys of her piano.
The same song plays over and over,
sometimes a fast pace and full of smiles,
others slow and lullaby like.
Skin, never blistered by the harsh sun,
is only smooth to the touch when a truthful smile commands the lips.
But the longer the fake smiles dictate,
the longer the skin is rough.
She likes the feathers of a song bird,
Hung from her neck,
from her ears,
from her wrists,
hoping she might spontaneously take flight,
only hoping, ever hoping.
because what do we really know,
about flight itself?
Man might have conquered the sky, the land and the sea,
But does not understand the feelings so animal like,
so passionate, that we cannot contain it in ourselves.
The feeling of flying, truly flying,
but enclosed in a box we are,
in the skies as much as we are in life.
Honey hair and eyes like emeralds,
sees the skies for what they truly are.
Wisps of pure heaven,
little pockets of peacefulness,
a great land just out of reach of discovering.
It is lost on her,
why we travel the land,
and the vast blackness of space,
but we have not yet discovered our own sky,
and the truths it has captured.