I kept myself busy between the dots of life, worried about falling asleep behind history's walls.
My secrets were fragments of irregularity. My smile was the faintest puff in the universe.
I did not rise from an accident. I existed with every question mark.
I was the author of my destiny, and I wrote great books.
My bones turned into dust in time, and my antiquity survived through the passing wind's recollections.

poem by Michel ah
art by trez