I see a comatose shell,
Fighting a deadline.
It sprouts wings of waiting,
Just like mine.

Withering, yet standing strong,
In a jealousy inducing calmness,
While my colors swell,
And I burst.

There are soft spoken scribbles,
Of an odd one's head.
The scribbles continue for centuries,
Trying to strike a chord in someone's heart.

Maybe things that transcend time,
Are meant for their hands.
Maybe things that stay in shapes,
Are meant for mine.