The story I wrote, on papers of mind, with pens of thoughts were dreams,
And then the eyes, were pinched open, with deafening truth that screams.
Oh yes! I thought, I would stop not and travel to places great,
then dazzling views, and joyous sounds and smells that truly elate,
would follow the way on which I'd sway, with joy, alike daffodil,
never did I think, that with a blink, such festive dreams would fill,
with stings of truth and hence with pain the reverie would shatter,
and every step I'll take with care and make sure it does matter.
And hence with time, the rhyme sublime, of innocence, here ends;
But I still walk stiff like a rock, where would it take, depends!