On the day I was born

It must have pleased my parents, I would like to think,

To have bred me, a jittery ball of life.

What must have the day been, I can imagine it not,

A room filled with nurses and doctors?

Perhaps, an indifferent lot.

 

Years of streamers on the wall, candles on the cake.

Of glittering wrappers and satin ribbons, fat envelopes.

What joy was it to them, but little of it I remember

Maybe my factual aging, the gifts to open, a lot?

Perhaps, a mere social preamble.

 

What’s etched is the nights with my sisters,

In our ratty clothes and delirious cakes, huge candles.

What memories to live by, carved into stone it seems.

Maybe love does triumph all, triumph everything?

Perhaps, it’s the sisterhood and its dazzling gleams.

 

Years away from them, in name of growing up.

In a down trodden apartment, beaten up accounts.

What a farce it is, all the live-long day.

Maybe it is the distance, taking toll on the clock?

Perhaps, the ship has sailed while I wait at the bay.

 

One day out of the hundreds is dreary, just that one.

Night spent hugging the knees, comfort sought.

What a day it is, one that never ends.

Maybe it is just a thought, a thought gone astray?

Perhaps, the forsaken truth that with life now blends.

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