Murmuring names of angels,
her faith seemed real.
Some friends, whose terrible views were cool,
were not so sure. Childish idealism
doesn’t cut it. That’s how they feel.
Somehow, it all worked out for the worse.
For her, life was like a fairy tale. Someone
always stepped in to help her. A dunce
comforted her, once. That was me.
I couldn’t help but admire her verses.
Do you see how it affected my poetry?