I’m spent, useless, blind

and lying burned

and sizzling and cracked

on the hard ground.


I soared like Icarus,

arms outstretched,

in anticipation of reaching

gold, perfection, peace—really,

that thing we call greatness.


I’ll come in today.


But then my dreams broke apart

and danced like detritus

in a bomb blast,

before crashing—no, crumbling—

to the gray and empty earth,

pulling me there, too.


And now I’ve been here six years,


like a brick in a building set,

like the coffee pods in the break room,

an entity, no identity,

a crushed thing who once hungered for fame.


One minute. I’ll connect you.


I am nothing, a number,

a faceless face.


Sir, can you speak louder?


Remember me?

I defined up-and-coming.

You turned on your TV,

heard me, cried.


I sang arias for dignitaries.

The music gone, I now say,


press 9 to hold.


Yes, I’ll stay later.


I toss and turn at night.

I let my body slow

then fall into chaos,

not sleep.


My dreams, they changed.

I’d long to be back on stage.


But now they are always the same.

In them,

I’m silent.

I can’t put pen to paper.

I can’t even remember my name.



Photo by ElasticComputeFarm (Pixabay)