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 Royal Road, this story should be reported if encountered on Amazon.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.