You began but never became.
Unfinished paint dries quickly
On the pale wall.
Poured with intention,
But never found it’s shape.
What is more haunting?
The work left undone or
The proof that you once tried.
It’s nothing but stains
On the pale walls.
You never quite climbed
High enough up the rusted latter
To reach your true potential.
The pale walls wait for a brush
To finish the job, but it never does.
And whose fault is that?
The pile of trembling bones
Too scared of the unspoken visions.
A testament to the ache of almost
Painting the pale wall.
The latter, now a relic of intention,
And plans abandoned mid-stroke.
There is no shape or mural.
Only a splotch of dark color
That never became a picture.
A picture that began but never became.