blocks of wood that ought to be
bird houses
and cards that ought to be
games
and hands that ought to write
and a heart that ought to love
and a brain that ought to work.
suffocated by half-baked ideas
and canceled plans
and smothered by
dreamless sleep and unfinished projects.
defunct and derelict
the artists grip
slips off the chisel
and nothing looks like the blueprint.
i spent prestige like coins
on a half moment's respite
and a half moment turned to an hour
and an hour turned to two years
cowering;
i am cowering in my own shadow
of what i thought i was
though i know not it's shape.
i don't deserve to be capitalized.
fluidity longs to take shape
but slouches in the mold
a failed and brittle thing.
my neck is bolted on as
i cannot look forward or back.
my respite is over
yet my palms are empty
and my fingers are idle still.
i can only manage to wave.
adieu, my friends,
adieu.