By day,
wondrous
miracles
seem to
fade...
though be it
more light
to betray.
      
By night,
the stars
and moon
intently
portray
a better view
of the
world
around us.

Tick, tick, tick.

The clock mercilessly never stops,
Trudging along the face of forever lost - time
Never allowing for a single, revered pause - for life
To be more than just an hourglass
Running out of sand, or a compass
With no direction that may last.

Tick, tick, tick.

The clock is running. It never stops.

The place of a red, roadside wild flower
Nestled indistinctly between the blades of grass;
Winter in the rear view, and Spring within the hour
The flower attempts to grow just as fast,
But to no avail -- the winds are too cold still.
The flower eagerly awaits it's blossoming chance
When the winds are no longer chilled.
The time has not yet come for a flower dance.
Neglected, beaten down, and ungrown,
The flower lost its will to live.
No nurturing spirit that could have sown
The damaged seed in that flower's ribs...
Consider the garden that you may have.
One day, one flower, might be in the past.

Curls.
Lengthened, stretching
Auburn curls.
Winding around the delicacies
Of profound life.
Growing incandescently
In a newfound, unsound method.
Vibrant with innovation,
Yet in the same instance, arid.

Questionable.
Irresistible.
Undefinable.
Desirable.
Allego­rical.
Many are awe-struck by this oracle --

She loathes her curls.