Wooden Rose

Those dark eyes,
Seeing to the ends of time,
Shrouding the darkness as it cries,
Smoldering like hot ashes.

An aura of superiority,
Above all others who shine their light.
Through all my thoughts, he is the ascendancy,
Of not is even the one with eyes of ember.

The rhythm he is with,
Surrounding all he does,
Every infinitesimal shift,
His movements are in beat.

His mind is more mature,
Yet still the age of theirs,
More clever, but still unsure;
Puzzled by my ruse, as I am his.

He is of the roses;
Of myself are the daisies,
The opportunity closes,
For summer’s daisies, it does.

Persistent, I will be
Waiting for the gardens to change,
For his acceptance to include me.
Finally to be accepted by my wooden rose.