Poem -



It is vague. 
A hand, reaching out to grip, to find purchase somewhere
A sweaty hand. One that perspires, and the dew that clings on to the taught skin is relentless
Extended into an abyss where nothing changes and yet nothing stays the same.
If the tendrils of muscle could stretch further into the void, it is certain that they would.

Every shadow is but as false as water.
How can one envisage the future, when in the past, nothing has befallen but idle hope?
From a distance, the shadow is a clear silhouette, marked by fine lines of charcoal on a bedroom wall.
Closer, and the fine lines fade to fragility before your very eyes
Slipping, slipping away and blurring to form a dark mass that means nothing at all.

A girl spends the evening on the floor.
Delicately cutting out square pieces with knobbly corners.
The finished effect is really quite astounding! (and it shouldn't be long before it is complete; if this goes to plan, our girl has the world at her feet)
The rising moon catches her eye and stares. "Look back", he dares. "I'm already glowing."
She's entranced. The glow is infectious, and yet somehow it is not quite within her reach. 
"I'm saving my glow."
Five hours and she reckons she's made it without a major slip.
The jigsaw pieces try their best, but will never really fit.

Despite this, the glow is still there.
Buried in dust, seeking the light.
A pearl, waiting for a diver to transport her from the oysters mouth to the pawnbrokers hand.

Your glow has to be deferred, to come out grand.