nightingale.

In an incense-filled room
covered in a thin layer of dust
and a mix of both clean and dirty laundry,
There is a girl
with messy hair
and porcelain skin
Covered by blankets and a mound of pillows
shielding her from the outside world.
In the morning, she wakes
Only by the soft touch of the sunlight
And at night,
she is perched like an owl,
pen and paper in hand
Observing all the world through glassy green eyes,
Childlike yet far from innocent,
all the creatures seem to fall in love
With the girl filled with words
and a song
Someone has yet to sing back to her.

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