Read me

Childhood 

Crayons ebbed away on paint,

I did not hesitate,

The walls were big enough,

For my dreams.

And squirmy lines in tangled webs,

Held my secrets,

Stretched in indecipherable streams.

The world was not set in its ways,

I drew my own,

Shades were not remotely akin.

It didn’t matter if the trees were grey,

Or green, the color of our skin.

I did not question the slant in straight,

Nor the smudge of thumb prints.

The nuances of mistakes were portrayed instead,

As my unique imprint.

Alas! I am no longer that child,

Not the same at all.

For now I stay in a place,

With no dreams scribbled on its walls.
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