Old is my soul, oh still not full.
Raw is my heart, right at its start.
Sharp is my mind, yet it is blind
To the beauty of my body.

Keen are my eyes; seen many lies.
Canine, my nose, at sniffing prose,
Which hands do write, when thought takes flight.
On ground my ears find fears I hear.

World outside, where I reside
is too immense, to make its sense
sit well with time. To sit and rhyme,
I do resign, will do just fine
To fill the time.