The year ticks on a discrete mark of the,
Unending slip of time, each moment gone,
A smear its place in time to 'ternity,
When does the wrinkle dress an eye with glee?
When do hairs cling to shadows of a jaw?
When does one wake up full of years for more?
To vast eternal shores all slip away,
The fullness of the thing marked out by God alone.

Podium in tens descend.
To the right burnished bronze,
Like smokey fire rising in the evening,
To the left an austere silver luster,
Like fragments of light and bladesong in the air,
In the middle maddened gold,
Like dragons steeped in splendor hidden,

I became a man today.
Something of a swallowed time,
Until my belly's full and I stand tall,
At summit of my childhood climbed,
I made myself a belt of rhymes,
I've strapped up tight with all my might,
At summit of my childhood climbed.

To which podium do I stand to gain?
Was it I who swallowed time myself?
Am I a boy that walks the clock?
Or do I sit in rocking beams upon the waves?
Given time, given gifts and lines that I shall say?
These gift and lines are surely such a present...
Divine.

The art of play,
Sits deep in the core of friendly relations,
And warms the heart,
And heats the cheeks,
Lining lips with rows of pearly teeth,
And a maker stands to watch and nods,
Good, good, very good,
Snug as peas in a pod,
Crafted to be just as they are in moments like these.