Sometimes the reckless poet in her,
Usually just some terribly tiny tales.
Unfolding stories of the universe,
Romancing dreams of glorified pain.

In the cry of sudden pouring rain,

People and  some fading trails.
She painted her body pretty,
But  could never really lie to herself.

Over the ruins of old spilled coffees,
Living moments with some serenades.
Their paths crossed every sunrise,
With  only promises of another day.