During the sun's rise, its golden glow resembles a beautiful silhouette that remains on my mind as if it was unyielding.
I bask in that presence of introspection, that favored grace that blesses me with thought.
But alas, it is for naught, my beloved Annabelle, my sun.
For when you set, I am left without thought nor purpose.
The golden glow that fueled my obsession now aids in my depression with its absence.
My mood now foul and full of scorn.
Oh, how I could've sworn you were perfect.
But now I realize, through your imperfections, how malleable your presence is.
