Storm clouds race, time at their heels.

Begging, pleading, hoping for the courtesy of an extension.

Below them, bystanders watch, waiting for the winner,

Like flecks of silver spun through the most intricate lace, the watch.

Picking shells, mingling, exchanging shy glances.

A flush of rose touches a youthful cheek,

The wind wisps and twirls the tendrils of one lonely girl.

She observes - this is her prized talent.

Constantly on the outer rim, her radiance is dulled by the mongrels that surround her.

Yet … they are more similar in nature.

The air they breath, the sun they see, is the same.

But what separates the lonely girl and the mongrels?

She knows what she wants.

Hiding her true self behind the mask created for her, she thrives.

In an ironic way she lives truer, sees deeper, and loves fiercer than any king of the jungle ever could.

She is. She can. She will.