Shaking, fumbling, trudging along.
Slowly and unsurely stepping forward.
One small step after the other.
Not enough to be called walking just yet,
And hardly an improvement from crawling.
Nothing special here, just baby steps.

Wobbling, rocking, stomping along.
Carefully and insecurely stepping forward.
One small step after the other.
I don’t just want to walk, I want to run.
Nothing impressive here, just baby steps.

Trembling, stumbling, pacing along.
Unconfidently and questioningly stepping forward.
I moved better when I crawled,
Now here I am wanting to forsake it all.
Nothing spectacular here, just baby steps.

Staggering, lumbering, shuffling along.
Hesitantly and reluctantly moving forward.
A half-step following the next.
Falling back to my hands and knees,
Failure is all the heart sees.
I’m sick and tired of these baby steps.

Leaps and bounds, winds ripping by.
Life blurs into oblivion in the corner of my eye.
A breakneck pace is too slow.
Rushing forward at full charge.
Remnant sensations of a memory now.
The grasp of missing, dull burn of phantom pain.
Intense longing, and unquenched yearning refuse to wane.
To break away from these baby steps;
Not to walk again, but to run.
There’s nothing great here, just baby steps.

Nothing fun here, just baby steps.
No joy, no pleasure, just baby steps.
A shadow of what walking could be,
At a pitiful pace slower than a crawl.
Sometimes I trip, sometimes I fall.
They aren’t pretty, these baby steps are,
But I’m on my way.