I wrote a story
with an ending not so well.
For the main that I have chosen
chose to leave the chapter.

And so I had no choice
but to close the book
and put it on a shelf
where it truly belonged.

Until one windy day,
a clean sheet of paper
blown by the wind
sat on my lonely den.

And right there
I gave birth to two:
prose and poetry
they call them.

One I nurture for long lasting,
the other makes me lost in a while.

both of them
I found
in a new main
I won't get tired of
writing all my
new beginnings with.