Tiny little pieces fallen on the floor,
I pick them up diligently, like a chore.
Once a magnificent marvel,
now fragments of the past, without any sparkle.
Washed over by life, love and loss,
Tales of bridges burnt, and crossed.
This is not a sad tale,
but one of tragedies and triumphs.
Of dragging yourself up the hill,
searching everyday, for the lost will.
Every story has a few tears, drops of blood perhaps,
But what is a hero without a few mishaps?
Every blow, meant to break me
only to mold myself anew.
Someday, I’ll be ready,
and have my destiny fulfilled,
Until then, I shall continue to rebuild.
Copyright (C) 2016 Sneha P