Her life was a metaphor you see,
the pen was magic and so was she.
The ink was love, yet as black as her soul,
and the words she wrote made her work to feel whole.
Her hands were carved from slabs of ice,
Her personality was made from sugar and spice.
Her eyes were summer, her voice was fall,
Her touch was winter, she made you feel small.
Because her life was a metaphor, you see,
Happiness doesn't exist, and neither does she.
She was only a metaphor, she was never real.
