I've braved the life of living in the past,
Of caring for what never cared for me.
I've watched a hundred thousand days be flashed
like glints of sun across a choppy sea.
I've never taken tea with foreign kings,
but I could tell you tales of how I have,
and in those fleeting moments, fickle things,
my words would be your melancholy's salve.
I read my tales and stories with a head
that sits upon a swivel and a lie,
and every word I've written, thought, or said
will follow you until the day you die.
A greater sun as never shone on me
Than when I found my immortality.