here she comes,
barefoot on the sand
hair of jet black waves,
the moon making love
with the sea.
her voice is the wind
from the west,
dispersed in melancholic
repercussion.
she didn't want to be,
but she is a lie,
a utopian
seashell folklore, a
falsity thriving to be told.
she lives in a
transcendent world,
lost in the sea of
bedtime stories,
trapped in the innocence
of a sleeping child.

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