Mine is a tale, told by an idiot,
full of sound and fury, signifying nothing.
Peering out at the edge of this dock, over
the dark abyss of the ocean, at damned near
thirty-five years of age, I now have the keen
intellect to conjure how I must turn back
and walk thirty-five more years to the shore.
But that moon does rise behind me, and though
the walk back is ever colder, and the tide is
rising and cracking against these old timbers,
it is not so perilous as the shadows beckon.
The moonlight waxes crease and crevice, ancient
steps I took before. Ancient steps I take again
and sturdy though I weaken, my mind is now the
bastion of my manifested person. My mind is now
the treasure and my mind is now the chest. My findings
are uncovered, now I walk to take the rest.