She was an art
in the purest form possible
She was bizarre
like really bizarre
She set her eye
towards the dying sun
She danced through the night
like puppet on the string
and that is what she truly was
the bleeding heart of yours
She was trapped away
in her own darkness
She never crossed
the line to the light
Was she scared of you or
was it only a myth?
She will never truly know
She vanished one night
after midnight
All she left behind
was a small book
of her poems
To some she was bizarre
To others just a pure art
