My mother,
Once told me a story,
On the hillside,
When I was only nine;
One of radiance,
Inner beauty of sorts,
Of a perfection,
That would be mine;
If I would believe,
Hold on through it all,
The strongest storms,
Or the blissful nights;
But one night,
Was not so blissful,
I watched her go,
As I screamed in fright;
I then knew,
From that night,
That the story she told,
Of love and glory;
Was only a reminder of,
Her own false hope,
And I, myself,
Let go of the story;
Once told me a story,
On the hillside,
When I was only nine;
One of radiance,
Inner beauty of sorts,
Of a perfection,
That would be mine;
If I would believe,
Hold on through it all,
The strongest storms,
Or the blissful nights;
But one night,
Was not so blissful,
I watched her go,
As I screamed in fright;
I then knew,
From that night,
That the story she told,
Of love and glory;
Was only a reminder of,
Her own false hope,
And I, myself,
Let go of the story;
jasont727
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