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rescinded perseverance, long before long seemed forever far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.
