The Dreamer

There was something about the dreamer.

Paint in her hair, no care,

The world vast and empty but she fills

Voids with pastel static, words drip

From matte lipstick. Panic 

Never takes air from her lungs,

She knows she belongs. A firefly in

A pillowed fog, not smog, but subtle

With tea latte sweetness, kept warm on

The mosaic countertop filled with

Broken glass, no longer shattered, together,

Making beauty out of severed past.

She will last through creation, motion

Lunging to brightened staircases.

She faces dilemmas by the dozen,

And will never be forgotten.