Identity Crisis

The seldom one in the corner
Nearest the window sill
with the metallic black hair,
and her eyes stare off into the dust.

Her voice is rarely heard
Except when she dreams aloud.
Is what she says nonsense,
Or past our realm of acceptance?

Her mystery is captivating,
As she sketches away..
Is art her form of expression?
Or depression in its worst form?

Who is that girl,
And I don't want a name!
Her vanilla complexion taunts me.
Are we even sure she's sane?
Don't let her walk off again
Who knows when she'll return...

Her eyes are blank and misty;
and scream discontent.
Her figure clouds my vision,
foggy dreams fall around her.

She sings in the oak shadows.
I've think I've heard her before..
Her words were all imaginary,
and the birds were her audience.

You won't believe what I dare speak next,
But that girl looked right at me.
Over time I've learned not to fear her;
But that mirror holds secrets to this day..