Progressive U Creative Writing

As the pages of a being’s book pass,
As if each chapter were a turning age,
I see beauty through the looking glass;
A line marks every eternal page.

Though youth shall long pass and stow away,
And Nature shall call and ask for mine name,
Here rests on this shelf a page of today
Of what I have lived, of who I became.

But no louse burrows nor rests here yet,
And until that call I will hold mine quill:
I am far from that final volume set
I have a young book, not bounded still

With brown’d pages of unbearable stink,
To be yet filled by a lifetime’s dark ink.