Eyes that speak silence in volumes,
A trait early century movie stars would die for.
The only one left in this world,
That believes true love still exists.
A painted mouth...
Waiting for its first kiss.

Ah...a whimsical one.

Envy grows with each look of her.
But yet she stands...
As quiet as a convent on a Sunday morning.
Clutching her white dress in one fluttering hand.

It would be easier to just close your eyes.

For every wish she’s made,
With the clasp of her tiny fingers,
A shooting star crosses the sky.
The night is young,
Fate still has time to turn.

She may just find her place.