She was born from dreams
Buoyed up on the winds of a whisper
On the plump red lips of fairies
With golden splendor and dark vigor
Dancing along the roads of minds
In dresses that flowed outward
Hugging her waist and thus disembarking
Clouds for eyelashes and ink blots for brows
Her eyes spheres of glass reflecting flames
Icy puffs of breath that wrapped around her
Covering her in a blanket of chills
Flying down with airless beauty
Wings like that of an angel
Widespread, white feathers
Stretching out as far as they could
But cramped at the same time
Because they were contained in this world
In this expanse of earth
Before she hit paper
Before pen caught her breath
Her marigold smell
And transferred her to a new place
Her name was idea
Then, only then
Was she free.