Be it morning on my tightrope? I lose
Mine eyes to stars; balance to why's; I burn
Tenfold like a season—the decline of.
You shine. I see myself through you, through me.
You run! Eden gave you such agile feet.

These in-betweens spoil me most. You steal from
She who weaves the threads of life, to leave so
Urgently. I make do, but I sadden.
Good luck, fair-footed. Go off and see what
It is that is calling you so loudly.

-

a/n: Just one wrong move.