Amongst the dirt and browned over rainbows;
a flower grows.
As vibrant as any; manifestation through darkness.
Light through dark, dark through light.
The only way.

As I look down at my weathered hands, I warn them of the coming storm.
Yet another.

Only the echo of reruns exists,
along with the linger of a single tv dinner.
I wish the light would stick around but the past has no light.
And a bright FUTURE could be a faulty bulb.
Only the present carries light, even in the dark.
Even reruns know the show must go on.