The force behind the hand grows tired.
The field where words roared and played
is barren of life,
full of bare trees, hard soil, muddy snow,
lost time, and regret.
I own the irretrievable
and the unacceptable.
My idle hands have doomed
my legacy to obscurity.
I tell myself
I do not care,
and wonder why
I’m weeping.
Beyond Panic 