Overstayed the day,
These petty games we play,
To pace about and find a want,
To prick the pride and find a font,
Which drips a poisoned brew,
Until we're spent: our energies few.

A year has passed by in my wake,
And poems flow like water now,
A closer friend to hear my thoughts,
Enshrine the days, imperfect jars,
For me to look and cobble back,
My days, their ends, their troubles, joys,
For me to hold a stack on stack,
Of tales of the wide land between,
Who I became and who I've been.