Her albicant lips, taunted with snow,
with the cold wind in her hair passing off
to the grey yesterdays left uncolored.
Wanderlust, that's what she felt and maybe
she was Wanderlust herself.
She sat with herself in an empty room,
what she liked throughout the years
yet a wave of indifference chilled her in.
Hair in a mess, she opened the windows-
like eyes, how they're windows to the soul,
and blankly overhead, a sweet melody heard
from the little birds that couldn't fly,
sitting on an old oak tree.