Every second that passes,
Sitting behind my glasses,
In front of my suitcases,
Tying down my shoelaces;

There is a constant bringing to mind,
Of a certain kind,
Quite visible, even to the blind,
Sure leaves me in a bind;

From the corner of me eye,
Descending from on high,
A portend written the sky,
No need for amateurish spy;

In figures, three of them,
Branching from a stem,
A well known term,
Not unlike an active germ;

Four, One, Nine,
Is it benign?
Be it...mine?
Or the very end, divine?