Wasted Potential

There is anguish in not becoming,

Seconds pitter-patter on my forehead

Make a dented shell of my mind,

Every vista undresses its secrets and

Reveals the clock-chimes I can steal before night strikes,

Eager to have its meanings swallowed,

But I will be statue amidst clay,

My hands will not kiss shapes into opportunity

And make of it legacy,

I threw promises on morning clouds

Before the Sun knew the dead in my face,

Is it any wonder that their dismay

Is so violent in its receipt?

I will be statue and watch rain

Carve pits in my plaster,

I am regret in making,

Gather around and

watch me do

nothing.