Once upon a time

I remember how my dad,
Once upon a time,
Used to customise fables –
A story revolving me, he moulded with every single line.

 

I used to be the centre of it all – the beautiful princess,
The just lion,
The mighty elephant,
And the witty adviser.

 

Now that I’m older,
That I call age, just a number,
I ruminate on whether there would ever be
A story of mine, worthy enough to be read.

 

If there is one, would there be a reader,
Strong enough to bear the truth to my story?
Or would my tale be cut so curt,
That it could be abridged in a mere two lines?

 

They say that I hold the pen to write my story,
And that I fill the pages of my life,
But my pen is misplaced,
And I frantically ferret about for it.

 

I know I’ll find it if I scout out hard enough,
But until then, how do I write my story?
How do I be the beautiful princess,
The just lion,
The mighty elephant,
Or the witty adviser?

 

In lull, my pages wither and yellow,
And while some crumble,
There are still a few blank pages unscathed,
That would turn unimpeachable,
If someone would care to spread their ink.
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11 thoughts on “Once upon a time

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