This afternoon I pulled out a seldom used book and a folded piece of paper slipped out onto the floor. It turned out to be a poem I wrote when I was probably around ten-years-old. It’s not half bad so I thought I’d share it.
Where a lone bird flies
and a wind blows lightly
I find my way
Where the sand sparkles
as much as the stars themselves
I make a wish
What a sight atop a mountain peak
I see my home
As tempting as it was, I didn’t edit anything. This is it how it appears in my scribbly handwriting. It’s funny that I should find this now as I’ve just recently started writing poetry again. I guess it’s always been part of me.