There are tales that speak:
Of the valor of the eldest,
The mischiefs of the youngest,
The achievements of the middle child.

Why there are even tales
Which speak about
The kindness of the lone,
The perseverance of that child,
The goodness of their hearts,
And the mischiefs they had done.

Yet as my pen scratches the paper,
A yearning roots itself.
For why are there no tales;
Depicting the longing of that child,
The pain felt by that soul,
The loneliness that engulfs it whole.

Why, Oh why?!
Why are there no tales
About how hard it is
To have no one to lean on,
To have no backup,
To have no support,
To be all alone…

Staring through the window
Into the dark night sky, I wondered…
Then finally, it clicked;
The only child was always alone.


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