"The Girl" Poetry II

This little girl inside me,

And without thorn the rose,

So fair and sweet,

Of spring the fairest flower,

Dances with the hours and graces,

Coloured like the dawn,

We maybe are strangers,

With fame and not with fire,

She was lookin' for a soul to steal,

And he was in a bind,

And lose his own soul?

Its trial, its trouble, its sorrow,

Of a day without a tomorrow,

Exiles from delight,

To liberate us into life.

Is darkness of the night?

Is the moonlight,

Were we dance with her light.

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