APRIL’s spring

A wimp rose walks lightly. Excuses herself of seasons glory. It’s not and not time still. To bloom my bud hail

A rose must be beautiful

A rose must be fresh

A rose must not wither

So long a rose must it linger?

When must time permit? Real flower to live? To wait and wait need I? Or walk past you and grow?

My time came at night

But how must we delight

When all is futile at night?

Yes It should we should!

Forego each pitch black

Even when cannot

And shiny,

Glow in the dark