The Lost Girl.

Description of a friend.

Black streamed velvet hangs from her head,

A lace of night, from the night's sea bed.

As dusk rolls in and fog is nigh, 

She's zoned out, glazed are her eyes.

You wouldn't compare her to a summer's day,

More the winter's night, on the ebony bay.

The bottomless soul, the spirit that flies,

Her soul is not free, bound by body's ties.

Porcelain arms, strong as they'll be,

Determined to set her soaring soul free. 

Her legs are fast, she runs to the mountains.

Her heart beats out, it's a great red fountain. 

On her bodice, she supports a black garment, 

A facade of elegance, her mind is an armament. 

The End

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