We are born,

Pure, unaware, fragile.

With time and care, ...

Some sail the world,

To discover new lands.

Others simply desire, ...

I often close doors,

To simply be alone.

That is where, ...

Colorful flowers,

Brighten my days.

Even though, ...

When things,

Begin to fade,

It is likely time, ...

Today feels bland,

Rusty, never ending.

Yet it’s early morning. ...

Locks,

Keep danger out,

Or prevent a menace, ...

Thrown into a new world,

A language I hardly spoke,

Distance from those I knew, ...

Growing up,

Days were long,

Life was simple, ...

Life today,

Remind me of wildflowers.

Delicate, ...

In earlier times,

I often wished days,

Would quickly pass. ...

Walking past wheat fields,

Growing by our village,

I can’t help but wonder, ...

Maps,

Meteorological forecasts,

Or remnants of games, ...

Often the simple things in life,

Tend to brighten those days,

When the sun refuses to shine. ...

When doors,

Are open wide,

It may not be wise, ...

Looking back,

Each square,

Feels familiar. ...

Delicate, fragrant, layered,

With a natural glow.

On gloomy days, ...

Obligations,

Tend to wear on me,

Even though I know, ...

I recall the days,

When doors were closed,

The world felt cold, ...

They may look the same,

But only one,

Is meant for me. ...