Metamorphosis

In what seems so much a past life on some other world in some other space, I wipe the years from my Time_Withered face, but the years only blur from what is sure and what is to come.
Ahead were the steady_made promises, a future to Become, to be One that will stand tall, as some distant parent guaranteed my needs. A seed will grow but
must be tended and mended when Need arises. And the needs rose.
Becoming became an object to obsess when
possession became nine_tenths. Beginning
is what has begun and not what is, save
the outer space which attempts were made
to wipe clear from eyes obscured.
But the Withered face remains in place until the day the years are blurred.