The age of being she traced along the reflection which she sought in the mirror of herself. A single feather lay atop the brim of her disguise standing among the burnt cherry bricks, serenading the audience in which she held a deep gaze through several strings of thread. She holds within her youthful perspective, innocence and the raw imagination our dreams can barely fathom. Without realizing it each tear she releases from her grasp carries the bits of truth that require no logic, "just because," they whisper as they fall.And as her ever being grows amongst the trees in which seasons pass truth begins to only appear where sensibility sleeps. A shame she is reminded but hopeful to acquire what she once seeped and now yearns her age of being, the age of innocence.
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