An Ode to a Story-teller
She scrambled herself off the riverbed,
With the puny ghost of a limping thought,
that sacred water would lazily tread,
ravines of today with a tender fraught.
Tailgating the daze of an urban clot,
She yanks out her spent yet infantile heart,
for squinting deadlines and shifting plot,
home-works, her hearth and a grocery cart.
Months usher and the frozen days depart
Twilight sky resembles a looking glass
Story-tellers turtles rabbits, they dart.
Inhale... exhale, this moment too shall pass.
Well, orchids are rare, rose is all she wants,
Frail child will survive, while verity daunts!
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