Sunflower
Very few acknowledge that the day really begins at night, At the stroke of midnight, the wings of morning take flight, Leaving darkness behind, for the resplendence of the sun, And dejection too finally gives way, to the possibilities of
Stillwater
Wind glazes the edge, causing ripples on the surface, But soon there is no blemish left on its face, A stone stirs up ripples from its bottom, Soon all that is left, is the stone at the bottom. The first
Rain It Will
All activities have ceased, but the dust refuses to settle, As if in deference to every hard-working man’s mettle, Sadly the hard work is no longer worth its own sweat, But dust is the only thing these sons of failure
Leaving Neverland
It never ceases to surprise, the emptiness that makes up the inevitable, It teases, taunts, it makes a mockery of everything that is believable, And it never goes away, morphing into a vacuum that feeds into itself, For, the soul
Princess of Light
The deepest black always begins as the lightest gray, Yielding a little every time nights prowls around for prey, With every changing shade, you wonder if gain is really a sacrifice, Like losing a single brick, in an already crumbling