Then she met the sun rising above the sky superior to its servants, for 'tis the bright light giving shelter to trees and flowers — her morning is as rough as the dried sunflowers.
She ne'er-do-well at nights that seem to haunt her every time the moon arises from below — the moon whom she hates when it strikes at six o'clock and the sun sets at five o'clock, she never gets the time to smile.
Tomorrow with her is never home. A night with her could be considered as the curse. From o'er the horizon, she looks up above, and scream, “Even songs I love I could not hear!” Her little hymn and tones turned into lulla-byes — a lullaby to good-bye.
“Tis the time to go home," she said, but what if night ne'er sets down and tomorrows turned ashes and good-byes?
When will she go home?
I just turned 20 a few days ago and this piece was made months ago haha. Hope you'll have a good day.
It hangs in the air. It’s stifling. We carry it in our hearts. It’s heavy. We grieve the missing pieces, but also the empty spaces they belong to. The parts of ourselves with muscle memories that no longer have a purpose. Parts of ourselves that become inaccessible, and try as we might, we can never enter that space again.