Some days I wither like a
Wilted rose waiting for
The wind to pick my petals,
One by one, like a morbid
Little girl -- she whistles
To the tune of "I live, I love
For naught, I live not."

Most days, I feel like
The man on the moon;
So far removed -- my
White smile set in stone.
Yet these shadows shown
Have made such beauty
Into all I have ever known.