If I'd fit in the windowsill I'd plant myself in your direction, I would use the sun's energy to make this place destination. How dare I hate this space I occupy, I'm left to my devices, turning to light I'm waiting for the cue, to beckon to the shoot, and break the crust upon the soil. Lack of light the iris expands, my eyes abosorb a power coming from behind my dim room, in my den amber and damp, as if lit by faith alone, I've been more faithful than you know.