The quill, it has written many verses,
Some dull prose, some merry curses,
Filled with drama, every saga left untold,
Has millions of cries, of laughter and woe to behold.
Tidy, it is not, nor brimming with joy,
For it is the story of the heart, of every girl and boy.
The first chapter unfolds with first dew of innocence,
Of flutters and jitters, of monsoon showers of romance.
A unicorn runs hither, promising sweet sunshine,
It rains of honey, kisses stolen from moments divine.
Vain, it is not, nor generous act of instinct,
For it is the story of the lips, of tender bloom, brief and succinct.
The second chapter bursts forth with energy and passion,
Of powerful force, of thunderous flashes of swift motion.
The heart, overjoyed and overwhelmed, revels in the commotion,
It dances to the thumping drums and mistakes compassion with devotion.
But weak, it is not, nor strong enough to uphold
Its pulsing sinews, venomous and stung, and green with mould.
The third chapter blooms with caution and love,
Of gentle touch, of unending kindness from heavens above.
The soul, made tender, is now blissful and alive,
It sways to the music of smiles and swings to the jive.
Satisfied, it is not, nor sulking in the misery yonder,
Now it is ready, for more life, for more wondrous wonder.
The fourth chapter glides with ease and little emotion,
Of transitioning maturity, of splitting and joining with more caution.
The body, renewed afresh, stretches and breathes in
Cool, fresh air of singularity, of hundreds of voices within.
Conceited, it is not, nor lacking confidence, it yearns
For truth, just beyond reach, it lights up and burns.
The fifth chapter shatters all illusion, it knocks hard,
Hard on the open doors and slams it shut and pierces the heart.
The mind, caught unawares, runs helter-skelter,
It needs an anchor, a safety net, a ray of light, a warm shelter.
Ready, it is not, nor inexperienced, for it seems history repeats itself.
Now, it knows the chapter’s contents, it faces the storm by itself.
The quill halts for a brief moment, for now it hesitates,
It knows not the next chapter, beginning in what taste,
Ending in what flavour, it can only hope
For the writer to instill love, for now it has to grope
For a call of mercy, a song of joy, a prayer to preserve,
A symphony of harmony and above all the life it deserves.