Quiet is the night,
Are the stars,
But not her mind.

Alone she sat,
With her headphones on,
In the park,
As the cold winds sweep her hair.

Her face,
Illuminated by the street lamp,
Casted a fragile beauty that was indescribable.

That was what she was.

A mystery,
A melancholy-ly beautiful piece of art,
Waiting for her artist to claim.

Not to merely be displayed,
But appreciated and enjoyed.

Her cigarette burns out,
And she looks up into the sky,
Looking for the moon,
Looking for the stars,
But all she saw was darkness.

She takes a long deep breathe and brushes off the ashes that linger.
Her countenance rearranged itself,
And she became what was expected of her again
As she walks into the bright lights of the busy street.


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