Time

There’s never enough of it,
And yet, it doesn’t exist.

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Cycles

Beautiful birth,
(And so) Your cycle inaugurates,
Upon gossamer bedaub branches,
You creep from your bed like buds.
Adolescent and awakened,
Just by your presence.

Blossom emerges,
Floods the air with sweetly scents.
Enchanted by her splendour,
You form an alacritous affair.
Although inevitably, this will end.

Upon awakening,
The beauty of blossom has gone.
Desolate and alone, you carry on your revolution.
Illumination comes and goes habitually, until,
You find yourself in impending darkness,
More often than usual.

Metamorphosing from day to day,
From the green integrity of youth,
To the glistening of golden tones.
Lambent oranges merge into recherché reds.
You finally find beauty in yourself.

Fellow friends cascade and slip away,
Their own gravitation reminds you of your own.
You foresee your predestined end,
However, instead of feeling endless melancholy,
You envision how far you’ve come.

And from the safety of your abode,
Like Icarus, you fall to Earth.
Upon the gelid ground you lay.
Gathered with fallen friends, amongst a mound,
You finally sleep.