She types, she flies.

Boxed in, blinders on.

Automatic responses, with no soul.

A fear of dreams.

Oblivious potential.

The masses stay grounded.

Their visions of magic never performed.

Some reveal themselves.

Let their voice be felt.

An escape from the norm.

Passion feeds the creation.

And of the one who types, her words take her to limitless heights.

Most stay put within the grind, their creative breath held within.

But the Night Owl soars above us, her soul on an endless flight of wonder.

For D.D.

Thank you.