‘Twas not boredom that killed the writer,
But a lack of stimulus, that made her realize,
That life is brimming with solutions, with or without her,
And away from the everyday lies.
Still, just as thine eyes follow the movements of the morning sun,
So do thou hide from the truth.
A zeitgeist of freedom is just like an unruly son,
As is the eternal clock, in its totality, mute.
Prayer upon prayer, the ink blotches fill the paper,
And not once, shall it ever cease or yield.
The pen does not wait for the writer,
Like wheat waits not for the farmer to harvest the field.
And thus, she gazed at the heavens in awe.
Like every single twinkling star, time would wait for no one,
Yellow dress, following the glimmer she saw,
Rain would delight her dance, like a snow-white swan.