Sorry, the past couple of weeks have been crazy with work, but here is a little something for anyone that might still read this ever.
Visage
An image of myself in glass
a figment of me, faceless.
Is this what others see?
Are there even others?
The beauty of the world's for me,
begging me to see it.
In nineteen years I've seen so little,
such a fraction of a whole.
Even one percent would stretch
the bounds of my memory,
so I'd need some nineteen-hundred years
to see everything I wish to see,
to be everything I wish to be.
And I will never quit until
I reach this goal,
I've forsaken me.
I'll be nineteen-hundred in my passing,
and if not place me
beside the golden tree,
and I will find another self to call my own.
One day I will penetrate this earth
to never rise again,
but today I rise once more.
