Barely able to speak.
Bones barely strong as teak.
Too weak for greatness.
Here, a reward for small progress.
A first lollipop for walking without tears.
A first toy for recognizing a wild deers.
The mark on the wall growing higher.
In eyes, jumps of impulsive fire.
Tender words.
Or.
Harsh words.
A random toy.
Belonging to their boy.
Hundreds of objects beneath knees.
Like an autumn surge beneath trees.
All of that shine.
It was mine.
Maybe ugly but not expensive.
Pleasant and playful like an adjective.
Different collection.
Ordered according to its own selection.
New places.
New faces.
Then another box of things.
Inherited after older siblings.
Cotton covering cold skin.
Adventures in circles never seeing a bin.
The pile grew, gathering.
Like for a woman without time for gardening.
One closet.
Second closet.
One room.
Second room.
Every border.
Every corner.
Rust, crack, memory, hole.
Too small, too old, I am tall.
Mind in danger, odour of fear.
Do not take the gear!
Different mansion.
Same situation.
Finally, strong for greatness.
Here, a reward for painful progress.
First silver coins.
Everywhere, a friendly voice.
A smiling lady behind the screen.
Take it for fourteen.
A nervous guy on the street.
Take it, there is so much heat.
Famous statue under ink.
Take it, it is a rare ring.
Generously receiving.
Such a colourful feeling.
Limited moments.
Changing for sweet comments.
It seemed like a victory.
It seemed more useful than history.
Lie, I am sorry.
It pulled down my story.
Trying to impress others?
Trying to beat brothers?
Or the desire to mean something.
Anything more than nothing.
Discovering a life mission.
It got rid of this position.
It did not happen overnight.
It did not disappear without a fight.
Conducting purpose.
Breaking my raised nose.
A live picture in front of my eye.
I am done, goodbye.
Freed from the past.
Freed from heart closing dust.
Empty pockets.
Approaching the universe by rockets.
Empty doors.
Opened unmarked doors.
Empty bowl.
But a rich soul.
Empty hands.
But a gorgeous dance.
Numbers are lost, I am older.
But miracles have a familiar taste, a smaller folder.
All of the chains, all of the luggage.
Buried, dead garbage.
Without verses decorated by trophies.
Without scars engraved into copes.
Only a few pieces hiding nudity.
Only a few pieces hiding feminity.
Everything else.
Growing freely in a fruitful universe.