in eons the Earth
found the means to create
a wonderous world populated
with lush forests, rippling oceans,
and life bursting from every corner

and yet, the planet
still spins in the same direction
the moon still
borrows her light from the sun

then tell me
what's the use of
wishing on shooting stars
they've seen every unchanging moment
they know each story ends the same way

the flowers i've planted
have never bloomed, nor felt spring
all these years i believed
with enough water i could do
something
anything

perhaps i need to
plant my flowers elsewhere
or perhaps i should
accept this broken universe