Sewn Seperate
Lying high in my dim room are the withering remains of a dandelion crown, swiftly aging and indolently writhing.
I wonder if you think of me when you look down.
I wonder if you think of me at all.
The undone crown lie dethroned, lacking any semblance of life color. No hues of oxygen, devoid of the saturation of water, bereft of the brightness of a soul that came from the human hands that constructed it.
Just like that.
Falling apart.
But without the gracelessness of passion.
The former crown is just line of dead dandelions.
I wonder if you think of me when you look down.
I wonder if you think of me at all.
The undone crown lie dethroned, lacking any semblance of life color. No hues of oxygen, devoid of the saturation of water, bereft of the brightness of a soul that came from the human hands that constructed it.
Just like that.
Falling apart.
But without the gracelessness of passion.
The former crown is just line of dead dandelions.