“There was a little girl, with a bookcase for a heart. Whose dusty, lonely shelves, longed for swan songs to impart. And came a dawn hued book, with pages stained which dwell, in worlds of wondering whimsy, which reality could not quell. With lashes softly crotched, around lyric violet eyes, the little girl looked up, to tug boats clearing skies. A night where stars would fly, instead of tarnished fall. And where a bookcase for a heart, was not a bad thing after all.”
photography;myself by nirrimi hakanson  in a blue mountains enchanted clifftop pools.
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