My petals are a golden;
The brightest beams of a swollen sun.
They’re swooned over, so foreign
Yet a lyre gently strung.
I’m praised for my sparkle
A blessing just to grow,
But the pressure of planets
May rest on my soul.
But the peace of imperfect
Is a calm like no other.
My arms feel as feathers
But my heart’s torn asunder.
Without my empty sparkle
The gazing is gone.
Do I grieve for the sun
Or am I glad that it’s gone?
But in the blank, at last I may rest.
At last,
I have flown.