The StoryTeller

Sunrise streaks my brow with gold, but fire boils in my gut,
A restless beast demanding flight, success an endless crave to break my rut.
“Rome wasn’t built in a day,” the wind whispers on the breeze,
Mocking wings against my back, spurring my dreams to swarm the trees.

With calloused hands and steely will, I hack at mountains grim,
Each boulder chipped a broken oath, my failure’s born in mocking hymn.
Where are the fanfares, victory’s kiss, the marble halls of fame?
Only sweat and stone remain, the wind whispers in my shame.

Then twilight regails ancient tales, of giants with slow breath,
Whose chiseled dreams took patient moons, defying mortal death.
Of buried seeds in winter’s grasp, awaiting sunrise’ lofty call,
Of steady tides that sculpt the shore, in rhythms soft and small.

I lay my weapons down at dusk, to let fireflies ignite the night,
Their flickering dance a symphony, a lesson in slow light.
Each brushstroke in the charcoal sky, each whisper of the stream,
Hums of a patient universe, where purpose weaves its gleam.

The years, like rivers, wind and weave, a tapestry of time,
And brick by brick, a city blooms, where once frustration climbed.
No thunderclap, no lightning’s wrath, but steps taken true like whispered song,
A testament to quiet deeds, where patience makes us strong.

For Rome, and every lofty goal, on steadfast pillars rise,
Where diligence lays cornerstones, and actions paint the skies.
So let us tread with purpose slow, and watch our empires grow,
For steady hands and mindful hearts, the seeds of greatness sow.

In fiery breath the furnace roars,
Where molten metal writhes and pours,
A molten will, it’s heart aflame,
Is where opportunity whispers your name.

Strike now! While heat bends iron true,
The moment more ripe, the deed left to do,
No tepid tap, let hesitant wash away,
For doubt’s dull chill will steal your big day.

Procrastination’s viper poised to sting,
With whispered dreams and future things,
The anvil waits, life’s hammer poised,
But Time, the sculptor stays buoyed.

So seize the spark, the burning hour,
Let action bloom into spring’s flower,
In forge of will, to metal wrought,
Shall shhape fate anew, before all else is naught.

For once the flame of embers wanes,
Regret’s cold ash will descend like rains,
A haunted heart, this silent forge,
Will then echo whispers of ‘Strike no more.’