She discriminates none, no story unread,
Tales of magic and creation and death,
Some inspire her with happiness, others with dread.
She reads Shakespeare's Macbeth,
Fairy tales from the brothers Grimm,
Luxurious stories stealing her breath.
When at last her mind is filled to the brim,
She takes up her pen,
And writes on a whim.
The words spill out, again and again,
She tries her hand at jokes,
A skilled comedienne.
She writes of a forest of oaks,
Waiting for the spring,
Shivering under their snowy cloaks.
She tells a tales of a king,
Of a child alone,
She writes of a bird with only one wing.
As the years fly by she sits on her throne,
Made up of hopes and dreams and words
The number of stories she’s written is unknown.
She says goodbye twice, then comes back for thirds,
Her body is worn, but her mind is sharp,
She lets go, and flies with the birds.
She swims with the carp,
She fights with the knights,
She listens to the ethereal sound of the harp.
Her spirit lives on, she soars to new heights.
Constantly busy,
Forever seeing the sights.
