For The Girl Who Can Draw, From The Boy Who Writes

An individual, with hair of roses red,
Stands in the depths of her self made dark. 
She cannot put into words what’s in her head,
So she brings it to life through her curious art. 
With the yellows from the fires,
And the blues from the skies,
She burns the soul of the liars,
Through her painful blue eyes. 
She paints the stories of heaven,
She paints the literatures of hell,
She paints the world’s wondrous seven,
She paints the angels who fell.
The girl with hair made of roses red,
Uses her art to say what’s in her head. 

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