The peach tree washed my hair with her branches,
Delicate ribbons sprouted decently,
The petite thorns devoured the curls,
Nearly like time that drove seasons afar.

All I could paint when I thought about time was a ravenous grotesque beast running over lives, devouring the past, present, and future,
Almost like those black holes,
Empty and full,
Space and time mere toys in the hood,
Their monstrosity...