Sometimes I pretend I'm the sun, burning bright everyday, giving you all I have and yet not enough.
You are a shooting star, beautiful and better, that nobody is fast enough to wish on.
I have never been able to understand what Wordsworth or Frost saw in nature. What magic was it that beguiled those creative souls?
But every now and then I see these colors and I ponder that there just might be more than science to it. Something heavenly and miraculous that stirred those legendary minds and invoked my dubious heart. Something that I can't yet decode.