I etch into the tree

a tally of the passing days

crossing off wasted moments

with scarred and bloody fingers ,

carving a testament against

the worthlessness

of the waking moments

passing one by one into the fog

of yesterday

A dream is hammered into splinters

an inspiration torn apart.

Cannibalized to serve

a new purpose.

And every thought,

every passion

Stolen from its rightful place, this narrative is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

mutates, broken

and put together again

in a lopsided way.

I falter for a moment, looking

upon my work,

at my bloody hands,

and nothing to show

for my effort but pain.

Sometimes I dream

of a woman I've never met,

and her embrace after

another dream is torn aprt

She feels like a melody,

a song I once knew,

but have since forgotten,

She sings a little

softer when I hold her.

Have I failed her?

Or do I only fail

when I stop?

I'm no artist,

just a careless craftsman,

And I wonder

if this is enough.

If it will ever be enough.