Given here free reign
To form myself.
I turn my ear to those without gain
No Beatrice in paradise to baptize me in her name.
Only time can pierce such a vein veil.
Now, every character breathes
Every sound finds the body that needs.
The pen kisses its reaper on the lips
Barely having touched the truest truth that lies at its tip.
I question every inner depth
Every straightforward aim.
Always a beginner full of jest
Forever finding myself lame.
The scythe of the poet, forever under the feet of the writer that has leapt.