Progress Tales

When you begin something from scratch,
You are either alone,or left with a few,
Who keep walking beside and behind you,
As bonding souls,welded to your goals.
From the launch pad of your lofty dreams,
All through your ornate onward march,
If things fail,it becomes an exclusive wail,
Unheard by your stony neighbourhood.
If your wings fly,you see a bonny bevy of
Bees ringing praise songs into your ears.
Tiring eulogies soon turn to toxic grumblings,
Fanning flames of envy and malice from within  
And frowning upon your full grown brand.
So long your team plays games without spoilsports,
Your ship sails with flags of naval pride,to all ports.
When your progress perturbs the scrap dodgers,
They corrupt your straight files and live ledgers.
They bowl to beat your runs of prime progress,
With their downing syndromes of sordid stress.
Progress tales are like paper boats on a stream.
Blocked by mounds of mud,against self esteem.
P. Chandrasekaran.