Watering Dead Plants

A vigorous fire burning the clouds,

an elaborate masquerade of delight.

I sit, calm, envious,

distantly observing natural pieces of a cosmic puzzle

pondering everything I wish I was but never had the guts to be.

Each moment rolled out, a vintage film in our minds;

playing for us on late nights, alone,

feeding on sadness and regret.

9, a mischievous school playground,

new grin forming with each kid toppled.

17, an ignorant last drive,

intoxication taking the wheel and pushing me out the door.

25, flying high above the clouds,

watching my still body with animosity and disappointment.

My life is an empty shell

that I convince myself is full of promise.

Years spent feeding an ephemeral dream

unaware that the truth was a dull slap

or simply refusing to acknowledge reality;

how long must the misery persist

until I stop watering dead plants.

Many have tried to plant new plants.

But as the films in our minds play

on and on, those too have died.

A withering disease traveling without remorse.

85, a final film, filled with remorse,

that I never stopped watering dead plants.

#Poetry