Every story begins somewhere, I suppose,
So what if ours never did?
We’re still waiting on the new moon
To rise from the darkness that hid,
By the shore embraced in tides;
They come and they go as they please,
Bringing us stories from the other side—
Perhaps that’s how our story would be.
Staying up with the stars,
And losing years of sleep,
Turning pages we failed,
Rivers of ink we bleed,
Nursing the wounds long-healed,
We wait on promises fake,
And we give and we give
More than we ever take.
Every story begins with a blank white page
That stands on a pile of all the others torn,
Some incomplete and others tossed away
With somebody’s sweat and tears of gold.
We test the waters to find our ground
And walk to nowhere we have known,
Every page remains an unseen mystery
Until the last one has been turned.
Writing stories of faces unknown
And songs about places we go,
Chasing sunsets until it’s dark
Like it’s our very last day,
Perhaps we shall never know
The stories that will be told,
If we don’t get out of here
To write our own stories some fine day.
~© Shubhangi Srinivasan.