She is still there. Waiting. She waits in silence for the sun to come up and nourish her roots for she was born a lily. The vines push through tender skin unsoiled fighting to resurface to discover once again who she is and what she is. Grounded to her fragments of self being she is unmoved. Stuck in a pendulum back and forwards only to take her back she is cemented in time. Still her mystery remains. Profound like the craters of a new moon unseen are the eyes of the eldest. Un-reminded of the skin she lives in her soul is still and quiet yet she waits for her wild lily to bloom. A flower contained in a cage so soft relinquished in allotment given up. Her time exists only in her soul that is not awake but monotone to the everyday sun she wakes for. Only she forgets the sun wakes and rises for her to grow because it knows the wild child is buried inside. Her growth is not in water but belief in her tomorrow for the sun that will never give up. Though she forgets the sun rises to descend for her, she is still blooming. Tucked away inside her maze she is still growing, searching, breaching her wild lily. She is still there, and so is her sun. Waiting.
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