Maybe Still Forgotten

Left alone, the abyss of failure closes in, for days it seems like weeks, though months are now reduced to counted minutes Coffin’d stances form the stoic barricade which surrounds my hope in picket lines of untrained defectors I claw at its lid, thrashing mightily to my sides as collections of miseries flood this chamber of my coerced sleep “I am here!” I shout, hearing my words echo in distance dance halls two stepping on my memory, spitting above where I lie Here - a relevant term as columns of disbelief carve themselves from my mind. Forgotten, left for dead, erased from the blackboard by the firm swishing hand of fate… reduced to dust (I don’t feel like dust) Blisters climb my arms in search of answers, none can be found here, where ever the hell here is… yet, I am here My brain circles the skyline in desperation, the gutters below cry, trash strewn as if it were me sleeping off my drunk in that Frigidaire box “I am me!” I cry to the empty corridors of someone else’s life One I’d rather be Or one who would rather not? ............................................... Someday my file may lie open, atop a desk, a partitioned sanctuary of hidden ethics, beneath the crumpled Cheeto’s bag, now layered with orange crumbs and fingerprints maybe someone will see maybe still forgotten