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Two high hills be.
Bridged by nothingness.
Parted by sea,
Of sheer weariness.

One is radiant,
Like the golden sun.
One glows too faint;
On this I was born.

Oh! Cross I must.
To the brighter keep.
Or there I’ll rust,
Like a metal strip.

But how will I?
I’ll need a good bridge.
There’s nearby,
The tree of courage.

I picked my axe,
Of free-will, from me.
To start the task,
Of cutting the tree.

The tall tree fell.
Stretching ‘cross the sea.
This task end’d well.
But it’s just a key.

Then I started,
To travel across.
My faith got rid,
Of the fear of loss.

But my heart shook.
When I reached the m’ddle.
This isn’t a brook.
My blood did curdle.

The wind of fear.
‘Verwhelmed my vision.
Poor I fell there.
Halt’d was my mission.

Myself, I met,
At th’hill whence I came.
I b’came a pet,
To pity and shame.

Trying again,
I then blindly thought,
Will be in vain.
My “seek” ‘lmost turned “sought”.

To frustration,
My failure gave birth.
Was drifting t’ward death.

Then the passion,
That fueled my mission,
Caused diversion,
To check my ‘ssumption.

I tried again.
I hoped ‘n proceeded.
The trial was sane.
B’cause I succeeded.

Failure’s scary.
It gives frustration.
Don’t be weary.
It breeds perfection.

Written by: Isholaayodele Wasiu

Author: admin

I am a member of the WRR editorial team.

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