She walked the streets for as long as I can remember.
Her cigarette loosely between her lips.
No rules applies, only the swaying of her hips
Her chin high, bleached hair pinned upon her head

She makes me walk the street with different purpose
I have to see her for my own intend and aim
She is the beautiful poem I want to claim
But there is nothing to get from her she belongs
to a different realm, were she is queen
And I the subject never to be seen