(Meter and Rhyme structure taken from 'Invictus' - by William Ernest Henley.)

Under the shade of dying trees,
Rooted in grit, wet sand and coal,
I crouch then curl in apathy
And begin to dig a hole.

Knowing the dark whims of random chance,
I have once struggled to put down
A wavering and anxious glance
That ends firmly on the ground.

In youth this world felt all too near,
Too close to comprehend, let’s say,
And as I weaved about my fears,
I learned to stop, take pause - and say:

It is in my mind I make the shade,
It is then I that digs the hole.
Thus when the time of fear pervades,
It is I that must take control.

Through mist I wander slowly;
A mist of six odd years.
Of misdeed, dreams, wearing seams,
Of trial, thought and tears.
In this forest bleak, lonely -
Blank, damp and bare,
I stretch a hand to high above
And call out: "Is no one there?"  
A ghost of brick, dust and rot:
Amidst wind, the structure groans.
The space contracts to shaded grins
And at once
I'm all alone.

Her eyes, redolent of a river’s tremor,
Startled me from sleep.

For years he strived,
Worked hard, and blind,
To the reach the place
That promised a mind.

And once arrived
He fell, struck, to find,
That there are no answers,

Only lies.

Clouds,
Quietly framed, aflame.

The Earth,
Speckled damp, with rain.

As it falls, clad in shadow,
Their hurried heels abhor
The spectre,
A spring petrichor.

At sixteen, he set about the task
In which he sat himself and asked,
When time is up, when stood alone,
How best scratch his years on stone?

For fear of nearing tragedy he worked
To find the words that freely said the best of worst

And so penned the lines
That in his mind,
Justified his selfish crimes:

“I sought to be a man of leisure,
But then leisure met the better of me.’