In my formative years, I was a glare.
I came up with a verve, like I’d leapt from my nest while still in the egg.
Wondrin’ if ‘precocious’ is the right word.
Every time I reminisce, I feel the gravity of the latter man calling again.
And ‘premature’ was a word too.
The sting of life was heavy on my consciousness all throughout.
Oh, never forget the sting.
There are few things I’m willing to forget about this younger man.
Hold it against him.
I combed his hair and ate his food, but I did not exist to serve others.
Halfway to church.
In any moment prior, I couldn’t count my blessings to save a life.
Ungrateful, uncouth.
But the younger man could ride the moon’s tide like clockwork every day.
Rot.
He had many schemes, and his followers came in droves upon drove
Languid sloth.
Though, father time manifested at the height of his sheer prominence.
Right on time.
And life lost its luster as he sank to the level of everything’s typicality.
I’m just like them.
For the first time, the verve bled from his veins and spilt onto the page.
I am just like them.
And the realization set in like a ragu stain on a white wool shirt.
Let them call me another name.
That existence is a unique suffering when questioned to its barest nature.
Suffer me the details of the reality.
That I, above my past self, should be content to simmer in a world on fire.
Let me back into the unknowingest of nests.