Miss Stone, hails from dark cobbled streets yonder
where clipped citizens play with planes of paper,
gulp cold fog to numb minds that never craved joy
and sing rhymes to reflect merriness in mirror hazy.
She alone dreamt, among multitudes churned in mill,
of sky that is clear and world that is an endless fair- joyous
where self is the currency , not standard stereotypes dull
and smile- the symbol of victory, not praises scrupulous.
One fine day, she turned the nook where people dread
and hopped on the sands that run free and wild.
She clapped at the sky beaming with blue eyes vast
adorned by brows, white, beckoning like far ship’s mast.
She danced with stars that are free and spirited,
rollicked with cherubs on things silly and stupid.
Slept at nights , drawing at futures infinite and possible
knowing the power of her worth, past hurdles and people.
One night, she heard a rustle down the dark moss
and she gazed at a serpent- green, radinat and merry.
“O fair lady! come with me to yonder, to world of floss
where pleasure is in our hands, sans values or loss.”
Miss Stone puzzled, looked at rainbow radiant and erect,
“Go ahead , my dear, if merriment is what you thirst
but remember, step not you may in this cradle once you part
for both worlds can’t exist- one of thought and another of dust.”
Serpent mocked at seven hues -simple and wise:
“It’s loneliness made this speech dramatic and sad,
all it wants is attention and admiration in your face.
Come my dear, let’s run far away from this entity- lone and mad.”
There she goes, Miss Stone, once tall and original.
Scorn replaced her selfish pure smile on face kind,
deep sorrow dragged her steps to a mere walk of mill,
her eyes never sought skies blue nor dreamt of futures beyond.