things past

I am venturing forth into a yonder hole

To rest my weary skull

Alone may the animal stir

That meekly but lurks

In the shallow ravines

Of my decrepit chest

.

If only this task

We're a god-chosen test

A means to an end

Rather than a rambling mess

.

Craven I walk off

Afraid of even a child’s glance

Until I discover

That I am only a mask

Built out of the babbling brook

Of things past