Pieces of me chip,
chipping away.
like paint from a forgotten wall,
unseen, they drift,
flake and fall.
Not to you,
Not to them,
But to me.
I’m devoted to peeling,
tearing back
the uncultivated,
the uncharted,
Parts of me.
Once pregnant with an ideal
the wandering creativity
lost at sea.
It was always inside me.
But the steer was never near.
Still, thoughts veer to the shadows —
The ones lurking, observing,
Sculpting, moulding,
a possibility of a dream?
Maybe—just maybe
it’s not the worst version of me.
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