Cream, soft and delicate, the folds and creases in her palms couldn't do harm.
The yellow daisy in the room sung her name, come to me and and don't be in alarm.

The swift of her baby blue dress, that barely hung around her frame,
swept the floor of all the grime, that the day had acclaimed.

Yellow and wrinkled, the flower laid untouched and still. Parched for the water the day had forgotten
but the little girl stopped, as if been plucked like wild cotton.

Was it the sun that had once made its way through the door cracks?
That began to retreat with out saying  "I'll be back".
Or perhaps the darkness the moon brought with it,
with the hope to bring tomorrow sooner than starlit.

For tomorrow has came and yesterday is gone,
and the yellow daisy keeps singing, "come and let's run".