stupid little things

there is a language, 

of clear skies and fluffy 

sheep-like clouds 

of tree-whispers 

and shooting stars. 

spoken  

in smile-lined faces 

she comes from a world

of puddles and stars.

from a world where

lion and lamb play

innocently, happily together.

a world where she wears

her heart on her sleeve,

and hopes and trusts although

emptiness is sort of strange, isn't it?

when you've got

an empty piggybank

or

an empty backpack

it isn't much,

it's nothing really.

but to feel empty,

to feel hollow and frankly