Jack the paper
A white paper he was, and Jack his name,
Sitting on the President’s table.
Waiting to be a part of the next big fame,
But never a meaningful fable.
He was a happy soul, with many ounces of pride,
His life never felt so perfect.
Little did he know, little had he cried,
For all his past lives’ defect.
Then a window opened, and Jack flew out,
Lifted by a wind that felt like a tempest.
He landed on a pavement, with mind full of doubt,
When a man then stamped his little chest.
The storm hit next, and Jack was completely wet,
The strong winds drilled holes in his delicate body.
He cursed his Maker for making his life a jest,
And wished all the water turned to toddy.
When he was torn and drained, it hit him hard,
All that happened was beyond his grip.
With a smile on his lips, though he was crushed and charred,
He thanked his Maker for this spiritual trip.
What did Jack realize? One may think,
He was just a stupid paper stuck in bad weather.
But what Jack realized that day needs no ink,
From then on he flew as light as feather.
