The clock hits the time of illusion,
From her closed petals,
The cereus blossoms,
Under the moonlight,
Under the magic.
The gardener watches from his window,
The loving expression, growing in his eyes,
She perks, in hopes his yearning was for her,
But those pools of brown reflected otherwise,
For he admired the blooming jasmine.
Even when the silks of her corolla opened,
The fragile brilliance of such beauty,
Could not match that of Jessamine's,
The cherished daughter of the moon.
So pure, so beloved, so exquisite.
As midnight arrives,
To snatch the soul,
Of the transient beauty,
The gardener pays no heed,
But to his Jessamine,
His Cinderella.
Author notes
This is a fairly old piece I've written. I do hope to get some suggestions to brush it up. I hope you like it though. 
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