I used to write here
Craft in these corners
Scoff at these walls
Scratch at the stars, like a lottery ticket, when the world was young
When my own structures were seemingly falling apart
How I laboured without toil
Spinning spun without thread
How tired was I, as a peice of myself, with leaps and bounds from cloud to cloud
When I was no older than the dirt beneath
How the tired me, trod this distant ground into my own history
Until it was more familiar and resound
In memory, as it is now