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

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  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.