Small Miracles

It started seemingly with a little girl sobbing silently in the dark after some high-handed spanking. Nasal with mucus and tears, she swallowed the bitterness, the hated of the pill Pride. You thought the weeping would quieten to a whimper and finally stillness, as Dreams paid their customary visit, and fatigue rolled out the red carpet. Yet the night turned chilly, as the wind howled against the window panes, like a Gothic mystical beast. It plucked a not-so-young lad from his whimsical reverie. He leaned close, the hair in his ears stood on end, pores opened wide; closer and wider, as the wind swirled harder. Then, he knew. Mischief lit up his eyes...

...It was this blog groaning, crying out in desperation for a post...

Now, where do we begin and end. It startled me to think that I have barely sunk my teeth into the flesh of life, not to mention sucking the marrow out of it. I exist, yet not living; I walk, yet not moving. Even though, life is full of small miracles...

Spirit soars, not only women swoon, from poetry. Dead Poet Society paid me a visit, like an old friend, courtesy of HMV and cash from my pocket. Walt Whitman steps into my life: a dragonfly swoops and skims the tranquil pond, glittering wings fairy-like.

The lions gave a thunderous roar, flexed its muscles and Kallang too. As victorious applause raised in reward for prayers and more. Glued to the box, all young and old, hands shot sky-high in equal ecstatic dose. I was easily contented, yet demand from our red knights, more of monumental bravery - for one last time.

Weary-leaden curtains fall, blinding the windows to a restless soul...