Something scratching in the back,
Something got her laughing while sitting up straight on her bed,
May be a familiar story in the old book rack.
The blanket was lying as she left it in the morning,
Twirled like a mermaid taking rest over a rock,
Waiting for the next wave dining.
The spoon just fell over the cup,
Like a huge star, shooting in the infinities of the sky,
While ceramic did talk and made hupp.
She just leaned back on the backside of her bed,
And just like that she held the music in the room,
And she saw the lower corner of the curtain waving to her but she wondered if it was all in her head.
You have a story.
There are words, waiting to be written.
Everything begins small.
Your little first steps, to climb up to her.
Mother, from where all your stories begin.
You are trying to climb up to her.
With her open arms, she gently, smiles.
Doubtless, you rise up.
Remember, those were your first steps.
Now, you’re all old, and strong,
Yet, you fear to climb the stairs of life.
Why don’t you trust?
Life is a book.
Why don’t you travel?
Why are you struck at the first few pages?
Let the chaos within burst out.
Even if you can’t see it, the story is weaving.
Thread by thread, into the tapestry of life.
And if words fail, hope remains.
For years to come, hope whispers, it’ll be better.
Better, sweeter, happier. Any more?
You leap through the dark mountains,
Follow storms. Yet, reach up to the stars.
Your first steps again. Do they taste the same?
Soaked in memories, happiness hails.
While sorrows make a wiser tale.
Mistakes, faults — the chapters you accept,
And do not wish to visit again.
The story of the fool you were, the story of the fool you are.
Wrapped up in few words,
One Adventure, called life.
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