I sought what I thought to be much sublime
Around the locks of aesthetic faces,
Then denigrated my pen and my rime
And went after pleasurable traces.
I brought what I caught through my desire
To the spoiled untidy house of my self,
Where I saw my past in cheap attire,
And my future covered in dust on shelf.
Oh present time, I never cease your shape,
Although your steps steadily walk with mine,
That dust to blow, my future to undrape,
My past to inject with my tough bloodline.
An instance of reflection hits my mind
As I leave a burdensome year behind.