Yours and Mine

Morning glistens on the shadow of an approaching dawn,

and somehow... in a way, I can stare up into it, knowing that even if I'd rather miss it, it is the expedited beginning of the coming of my nearing end.

Summers come.

Summers gone.

Ever in the lasting impression of my mind, you might believe you are unworthy.

Uncapable and incapable of traversing the stretch of long narrow paths that wind, that sometimes become wide and yet...

I ask you to be here.

With me.

Forever and in the now.

For in our faults,

in the line of shadows that crease our ever dampening features, we can see that through our own self-belief, our intrinsic value is immeasurable for the few we harbor under our wings. For we can break breath under no Gods or Kings, but only in the self value that blossoms beautifully in the ever coming spring.

In all the things that come and go, in seasons beginning and ends,

we are an ever blossoming garden, tended by meager hands striving for that artistic value until our end.

Beautiful can it be.

Sad and melancholy,

but I have resigned myself to seek out beauty not in the everlasting bliss, but in knowing that I never stayed complacent in a garden rife with sixths... sevenths... deaths of things once tried and never removed.

It's okay to look at the corners, the edges that brandish our mistakes, because even if the container cannot be changed, the soil can be renewed and refreshed in our ever waking gaze.