We all have our own fairytales, we all have our own lives,
the chef who works a delivery job, and owns three Henckel's knives.
We all have our own endings, and they all write their own selves,
the janitor with a pottery kiln, and the girls who dress as elves.

We all have our own yearnings, and our quiet little dreams,
the student who can't pay the rent who's bursting at the seams.
We all find different ways to find the beauty and the bliss,
the mother with her newborn child, her husband's tired kiss.

If our endings write themselves, then we provide them with the plot,
the grandmother with aching hands, or the tired, drunken sot.
If our yearnings decide their fate, then we've got our bent and say,
the crone who knits for grandchildren, the bum who rose and sang.

If our ways are manifold, then so's the story that we walk,
the cook whose wife pinches pennies for her husband's butcher block.
If our fairytales don't make themselves, there's time to take them on,
the girls who dance in ashen groves, the janitor's fair and lovely pots.

And we who still are living, and growing, and aging as we must,
Chase the ending we desire, and remember, all is dust.
But in between it's glorious with its silks and love and dreams,
So chase the sun and reap the dusk, and burst from out between the seams.

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