A Closetful of Outgrown Shoes
Day two:
                    The crawling infant takes his first step;
                    He seeks to imitate his father's measured stride.
                    Into his first snow, he walks tall behind,
                    taking pains in the calculated placement
                                of his not-yet-big-enough feet
                                into man's melting footprints.
                    He patterns his first words:

                                I've known creation
                              I possess the universe
                           I've outgrown these shoes

                    The boy sets aside his childhood wonder;
                    He studies in adoration his fathers calloused hands.
                    Into his first rain, he walks small behind,
                    trying in vain to forget the toys of his youth
                                chilled by the pouring rain
                                trying not to think of cocoa
                    He patterns his thoughts:

                                My eyes have opened
                             Each morning I awaken
                               To forget my dreams

                    The man walks slowly, without amazement;
                    In the garden of his youth he finds only gravestones.
                    Into the sun he walks, falling behind,
                    crying in pain at his eyes crusted shut
                                scorched by the blistering heat
                                fumbling for memories of snow
                    He patterns his epitaph:

                            "I have slept through life."
                           "I grow weary of fighting."
                              He lays his head down
                            (and finally knows peace)

Munch some fungus.