The crown on my head is a golden
yellow light, and yet... when time
feels wondrous and bright,
the love and sorrow feels
hollow when i write.
They say that i am less,
that i am... who i am,
and it was not
in my stillness,
nor in the night.
I question
about something
that never might,
something about me,
something about life.
While my own eyes
cry in fear, a little tear,
and always at the end
off one lasting year.