Passive

A name on the tip of a tongue. A father caught in traffic, who never made the party. A mongrel fighting a lion, whose only reason for living was the one for which he was dying. Were you here yet changed so much? Never be recognised; a caterpillar-butterflied. But I tried... ...and I tried... ...and I tried. Every season fallow, exhausted, exacted. Have I retracted or is there time for one last sweep? Am I the janitor never paid, always more dust to collect, to heap? My bristles are worn and no longer reach into your corners. A spider, relentlessly scaling an unclimbable bath, a forward moonwalk that will only end in withered legs, and blistered feet, then nothing. Life may throw you a paper ladder, but all too often life is wish washed away, with the scum, the debris, of a bad bad day. Mistaken, unrecognised, potential is lost, if potential is there it comes with a cost. A surety that exists only like beauty, in a beholder's eye, In an older sky, an older I.