Like dew on grass in a breeze of morning.
Is ever the small light gleaming in pitch of darkness.
Is like a tight spring tightly winded awaiting the touch of a simple feather.
One is like a tea pot steaming for attention.
The other ever silent and the light snuff out at the dead of night.
Is like holding back the mighty waves on treacherous shores.
The other is like grasping what is not there to touch but eyes apparently see.
Grasping at the chest at pardon past.
Letting go of hopelessness.
Fire and water coestixing then not.
Even if a tear fall from these eyes over you. Is a million too many.