Eighteen

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It is with a great ferocity that my condition plagues me
For the golden ringlets that encompass that which is my own mind and soul
Hath but one tether to youth
And in what form does this never-lasting sip of freedom occur
Than in that of a figure; a total of 17 chapters without significant beginning nor end
Is it not wrong that I am robbed of what I rightfully claim as mine?
Mother nature shall not require the children of her skies to dim their glow
Without asserting validity in her claims that they blind her
Hence a mere decimal shall not be cause for the demise of adolescence

Without having savored the delicacy that is love; I am called to adulthood
Lest I were to be a statue
I should only be moved to take action were I to find something worthy of another grain of the hourglass’s salt
Yet how am I to know what time’s grandfather is to see deserving if I have not yet tasted the fruits of a relation’s goodness?

Without knowing of all that is evil; surely, they must thrust me into that which I do not understand
Turn out the night’s light without dismissing the bogeyman or the fears of the youngling whose mind yearns for purification from the demons of independence
I am sent to travel on with purpose
But the child will not speak without guidance
Just as the butterfly shall not emerge before its cocoon hath been formed

To come of such an age shall present oneself with an inquiry
As neither experience nor wisdom has amounted to a sum equal that of a whole being
Thus, I decide that I be obliged to remain in this year for a lifetime






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