Young Writers Project

This world we carry on our backs gets heavy sometimes 

our arms ache as we stare at the path ahead, 

a path we can't see an end to

pieces fall off and we wonder if they were important

Japan, 1863

I made the long walk

Across the plains,

through the village path

under the stars.

At long last, I came to the monastery

where a message was waiting on the fax machine:

In my heart is a girl who

Waltzes to the beat

Of the thrum, who

Surrounds herself with millions

Of fairly lights that

Twinkle with the stars, and