The smell of parchment

And the love of fiction

Brewing inside

Brewing inside a complex mind

Always waiting

For a new opportunity to

arise

Always excited

At each new turn

At each new turn Or each new turn

At each new turn Or each new turn Of the page

Sometimes thinking

But always saying

But always saying And saying

But always saying And saying And saying

And though she's the devils child,

And though she's the devils child, as some say

She prays each day

And an angel

watches over her

As she sleeps

Dreams drag her down deep

Into worlds where she knows

Nothing's real,

Nothing's real, yet she stays

To know what

The world would be like

If it were to fit

Inside her brain

They aren't ghosts

but comrades,

but comrades, that stop her sleep

And they leave as she wakes

As she steps into the sunrise

of another tired day

of another tired day of another printed page

of another tired day of another printed page of parchment