Olivia Beauchamp

A girl of seventeen?
A walking display of the color green?
Or something more?

With her mouth
She's a voice that loves to speak
But a tongue that hates to speak up

With her head
She's a mind that loves to think
But a brain that can't comprehend

With her arms
She's hands that love to write
But fingers that don't know how to draw

With her legs
She's feet that love to explore
But toes that hate to leave

With her eyes
She's pupils that love to stare
But iris' that hate to look

With her voice that loves to speak
She sings alone to herself
But the city of London can also hear her

She sings a popular song
Ta-ra-ra Boom-de-ay
And the city of London dances to the music

With her mind that loves to think
She imagines what the future could hold
But the city of London already knows her future

She thinks of what an honor it would be
To use Morse's Telegraph
And the city of London beeps her a message

With her hands that love to write
She conjures stories of fiction
But the city of London knows what's true

She writes stories of magic and unexplored worlds
Her inspiration draws from Dracula by Bram Stoker
And the city of London sits and listens

With her feet that love to explore
She runs down the streets escaping the London crowd
But the city of London will never escape her

She runs past workmen digging sewers
Her puffed and braided dress barely touching the ground
And the city of London races with her

With her pupils that love to stare
She looks into the London night sky
But the city of London does not stare back