Not as simple as the mornings past,
quiet as the minds delay.
It never seems to come so fast,
when you patiently wait for the day.
Stagnant, the wind will clear,
only deciding what fate will know
Hearts are often prisoners of fear,
gently gearing to reap what they sow.
Confused why this is what we have to bear,
forthcoming when the air is its calmest.
Anticipation is bright in a section of his glare,
beckoning the one to gaze up on it.