I can only see clouds in the light of the day
and the stars appear only at night.
As my thoughts, in the wind, may get carried away,
I am left with my compromised sight.

I assume, beyond meadows, the resident rose
is left to survive among weeds:
appearing to suffer a bit through her woes,
fertile ground is quite all that she needs.

If I heed to this venture, will I make it back?
There is fear in unknowing one's fate;
and while my horizons run further away
they seem ever not willing to wait.

Still, in the night, my faults find their rest
as I'm taken for rides in my dreams;
where my sight and assumptions can always be right,
and the truth will be just as it seems.