Behind a wall quietly contented.
pleasantly isolated
always on the verge of expression.
She´s a library girl
through the shelves I watch her read,
sharp knife like eyes.
She pulls silence across her lifeform,
like curtains across windows with patience,
she´s the solitary bookworm
on the verge of imagination.
Days and weeks, thatching her sobriety
like a birds nest.
Swooning at accounts of stoics next
she finds me among the brambles of poets,
perplexed she scrambles toward me,
with every fibre of her being.
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