She struck a match and
lit the poet’s fire in me,

then left me to burn in
the flames of my loneliness

Now, I suffocate on the smoke,
and breathe it in like I write poetry

Seasons do not compete with one another;
neither does the night’s magical brilliance of the moon rival with the gorgeous majestic sunrise.
The persistent, melodious rains do not clash with the rainbow’s splendor.
Nor the dreamy perfumed clouds race with the joyful, pleasant winds.
Beautiful things happen in the right perfect time.