I withdrew my efforts months before months before
I am blank canvas, abandoned like the empty mine—still
possessing gold; seemingly, knowledge only I care to know
dust settles and design forms an abstractive patterning—yet, all assurances I can now provide are but trivial, unintentional; only residue, coincidentally shed upon, what once was the bark of pine
I rescinded perseverance, long before long seemed forever far
I am the rusted chain; I am the captive’s scar—so antiquated, a reminder of a past so effortlessly shunned away
dampness stirs alive the cloth—a cloth cares not for futures, of consequence or repercussion; it only does what you ask it to, be that wiping fresh a dirtied slate or offering moisture to an arid face.
I disassembled my entirety, part before piece before part and piece
I am mechanical; calculative—dividing out the old and worn, a sum of parts infused as new, fully aware, some slivers can never be removed.