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.
. . .