This art was not for eyes to see,
No, it was meant just for me.
But now you've seen, and now I've told
My stories, titled below in bold.

There's more to come, I'm sure of this.
There's bound to be tales I've missed.
And still more things that are to pass,
Sunshine moments through shattered glass.

The past is something very strange.
We're sitting at the interchange.
Some faces new, some faces old,
More stories waiting to be told.

There may be laughter, there will be tears,
As we drive on throughout the years,
The clocks are ticking down our time,
But kids still sing the same old rhyme:

"Ring-a-ring o' rosies,
A pocket full o' posies,
A-tishoo! A-tishoo!
We all fall down."

But that's for when we are old men,
And we're writing a will with our pen.
Not gorgeous beauty or red-hot pain,
Forcing a way through a battered brain.

A brain too tired to think at all,
As its life hits a solid wall.
Memories are the remains
Of a mind held down in chains.

But I am young, and I am free,
I possess strength and liberty.
So this one's for the future
And also for the past,
And this one's for the questions
That have yet to be asked.