Poets Of The Fall

She can see about four satellites
Every minute of the hour,
And find a four leaf clover
Where you never saw a flower.
She’s habitually paradoxical, a Parallel Perpendicular.
Barefoot in nightgowns, that’s how she dances in the rain;
Sundown to Sundown, like she was washing away her pain…
As she is beatiful, she’s unpredictable;
Damned irresistible, is it plausible to hate her?
She is my common sense, revels on decadence,
But what’s the difference? It’s impossible to bait her.
She can really be a handful,
Like the brownies that she bakes you…
It can be a tad hysterical,
But never quite the breakthrough;
She’s some kind of an epitome, the sea of intranquility.