Teetering on the edge,
The fragile balance of sorrow and gladness,
Is shattered by a stream of immutable joy and peace.
Tears of love remain.
Where are you now, shame?
Are you not cast out by tears of love?

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.

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.

Truly shorter lighter lasting,
Air is blasting on my ears,
The rain falls thickly now,
Slicks what was in the past already sluck,
But now its fanciful and free to stand,
Not drape nor find itself in knots,
Frames my face in different lines,
My nape less buried but in air.

A warm welcome is a lovely thing,
It stills the flitting heart for just a breath,
Enough to take the sight in new,
Of foreign spires and stern faced peaks,
Of brickwork to the dance of ancient bells,
I've found a place in dusty shelves and wisened streets.

Penguin party between the stone,
All flocking to the sandy arches,
Their Palace laced with gold and symbol,
Ornate echoes from the deep texture of time.

Another milestone sat upon,
Thudding down an inch,
Embedded for good riddance,
As I run off in a pinch,
These stones I lock and turn upon,
Greet me without a flinch,
And looking up I'm somewhere else.

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.