Fumble or fly

Tip toing back to life,

amidst  clouds ,birdsongs and trees.

Pushing  to stand tall  on the pile of strive,

drowning in  rivers that no one sees.

walking on lonely pathways strewn with salt.

Wounds cut deep with sharp knife,

with jabs of pain that do not  halt.

 The silent slivers of chaotic yore 

tremble  at the pulsating core.

pitter patter of shimmering shy rain

and peeping pale moon soothes the pain,

guiding  to glance at the sparkles of gold,

to embrace  high heat and the  biting cold.

 while pages of life  keep fluttering away, 

fumble  or fly but catch up along the way.