Ours to Flower

A wading pool I tread restlessly through awaiting the bloom of an ever loving you, the weight of the blue. Failure, a threat that threads my wings into coats of lead. It makes the balloon of your hope stone instead, and like that stone I am still. The gusts of your love blow across my windowsill, offering nothing but a chill that freezes the innermost part of my soul. Failure, a threat that threads my wings into coats of lead. It makes the balloon of your hope stone instead, and like that stone I am still. The gust of your love blows 'cross my windowsill, my windowsill, still, still, still as stone.