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whenever the wind whispers tales of adventure; i get near to becoming a sun-dyed hyacinth; for i never swung from vine to vine nor found a treasure; but i liked the safety of seclusion in this labyrinth.
the chaos of the scorching day is pleasant for not even a bit; it is nothing like the sweet night in its sacred stillness; most only cherish the light and not the opposite; there's serenity in being alone, there's truth in sadness.
i've been singing in the dark long enough to bud; should be content but feels empty in my petals; being a moonflower meant to bloom with no one in my pod; i may like peace but my heart is not made of metals.
to seek my desire, i don't need to take that one-time curve; i just wish for a hawkmoth to treat me as special as i deserve.
