In the Ink of time
My infant self
Wrote stories my youth can’t recall
Leaving only traces
In the consequences that behold

Till tomorrow
I cannot recall when nor what I wrote
I look at the proof on my hands
Still with a flicker of doubt
To have been crowned a champion
How good I was

Gratitude filled me up
As the work of my hands came back
In the form of the proof I doubt
And now I owe my infant an apology
About the story still being written
In the many crowns I now wear

Check out an erotic poetry series I made a couple of years ago, Muses to Mrs J