She weaves her words carelessly
Spinning silk that folds into living origami,
Softly creased and pale as a hint of mist
That's so fleeting it's hardly seen.
She treads dust like water,
Climbing to the edge of divine
And back again; she wanders.
A shooting star to those who watch
Behind kohl dirtied eyes she merges into mundane.
Smudged by disillusion her colours run,
Bleeding a maze of rainbows.
Finally she runs off the page,
Trapped in the intricacies of
Words she once trivially folded.
She is lost to her own creation.