Beauty is the child of the Sun
and like how Mother rises and sets each day,
it has learnt that the fleeting, the mortal, the ephemeral
enraptures the hearts of those desperate to recreate
something tangible they can bottle up forever.
…
Reality and control seem to be a silk rope
I’m desperately clinging on to…
Or water I’m cradling between my palms
Any sudden movement and I lose it all
Any movement at all and it sloshes over
My hands, leaving me bit by bit
I don’t want to fall over and
Have it all be gone in an instant.
Sick. 