Freckles of time
Fly effortlessly by
Leaving me behind
Closed doors–what I find

is a knack for creation–
Indulging syncopation
In establishing my mark;
I desire differentiation

in my work to designate
The things I’ve done
Quite innate
Is my notion to be unique–
yet

Like a speckle of dust
Surrounded by stars
In vain, I do rust
At the thought of my existence–

in comparison to my surroundings
my hard work isn’t astounding
or significant at all;
my life–like dust–
is smaller than small.