Like an unopened letter decaying over time, sentiments fettered atrophy.
Maybe, it crawls at a snails pace, too slow that it kills ones anxiousness.
The constellations conspired against it. Evanescent, reality forbid it existed.
The wick burned out —the top kept spinning.
It made time apathetic that it unwound itself; the hour glass stopped running.

But it does not halt, steadfast, it marches on; enduring the batter of twilight.
Ardent in its conviction, the gavel cannot be brought down.
Too bright, it pierced the veil of despair.
Too colorful, it slathered the grey area.
Too stubborn, it bloomed the wilt out of her.