Your life is not a moment,
During which you question your own worth.
That's a deviation from it.
It's not when someone else has your time,
Unless you're lending it out of love,
Or you've mastered the art of indifference,
To the state of your physical glove.
It's not even the state of deep despair,
That comes to you in the future's wake,
When it's already laid out before you,
As a stagnant, desolate lake.
It's when you're alright,
With what's happening around you,
Because you're bursting forth as a new being,
For which everything is absolutely new.
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