She is More

Color beams from her skin as the greyscale cityscape rushes by beneath her,

Faceless figures moving by.

They have no thoughts,

Only routines.

But she, with questions in her mind and life in her limb,

She who holds a pen as one does a baby bird,

She who looks into the streets and sees the universe,

She is more.

Daffodils burst forth in her wake,

And as I blunder after her,

She glides onwards.

When she writes, music blooms from her pen tip,

Light and golden and warm.

When she speaks, her words hold the weight of a silver idol,

Pleasantly cool and wondrous with comforting solidity.

But when I fumble with the pen after the warmth from her fingertips has left it,

Music does not flow for me, and my words crumble before they touch paper.

I long to be as she is,

Bringing life and love to this world of hate.