So much to say, so little time.
Oh friend there is so much that still needs to be said,
A thousand metaphors which I still long to craft
A hundred unfinished creatures remain in draft
Or a thousand more rhymes that have yet to be wed,
Nonetheless I can feel the end of an epoch,
That which has come to be the golden age of mind,
The purpose of a year, the goal of this long walk,
And a silver-lined tongue which I shall leave behind;
So many failures met, so many lessons taught,
How I feared once before that all might be for naught,
But my dreads have been quelled as over those long hours
I have grown and become a true man, a poet,
– Or at least ’tis my hope – one that never cowers
From sadness and who might somehow grace bestow it.