I used to hold tight to the thorny vines sprouting up around me,
Longing for the blossoms far beyond my reach,
But as the years grow shorter,
The vines grow longer,
The thorns become hooks,
And where once I stretched my arms towards the pastel roses,
I hang limp in the air,
A birds nest in my hair,
Without a desire or despair.
Apr 28
Apr 28, 2026 at 2:19 AM UTC
I used to hold tight to the thorny vines sprouting up around me,
Longing for the blossoms far beyond my reach,
But as the years grow shorter,
The vines grow longer,
The thorns become hooks,
And where once I stretched my arms towards the pastel roses,
I hang limp in the air,
A birds nest in my hair,
Without a desire or despair.
