When I was six,
I had typhoid.
Who knew then
Of mental voids,
Just pleasure,
Of being away
From school,
A home stay,
There was no
Future plan,
No letting go.

As I grew,
I held on to pain,
And darkness,
And rain.
I didn’t let hurt
Or seasons go,
Though they themselves
Chose to flow.
Now, as I grow,
Greater pain
Opens doors
For old ones to go.