it remains at the beginning of the road,

with aspirations of hope,

making me reach further,

my small arm could extend;

The concoctions engraved in my young mind

were potions resulting in different fates.

Everything began to brighten,

my needs dwindled to that of a picturesque thread,

and conversating got filed away

as means to evidence.

Priorities changed with the seasons,

and at times, isolation became easier than words.

. . .

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