My Moon
I'm not your priority,
Nor do I care.
I've learnt my place, it's certainly not fair.
The Flower dares to strive
but dreams to grow,
but she doesn't know she needs more
than the Moon's faint silver glow.
Her petals begin to shrivel, wrinkle and drop.
She was no longer able to look up to the treetops.
Her sight became twisted and slim,
For her flower petals drain of
her sweet colour.
She yerned and regretted rejecting the
warmth and the light,
As the Moon only had to offer the night.
It's shadows casted stripping her bare,
But she was to blame as the dweller.
A lesson tought well as she wobbles and stumbles.
For a Flower who dares to strive with only
a moon will not thrive.
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