This great potential.,
these un-launched gifts,
this passion guarded,
these powers on hold,
waiting for the years to catch up…
and then what?
the self-loathing
of the possible laid waste,
of promise somewhere
to the rear of years,
a crippled soldier
grabbing at the dirt, the air…
not nonpareil, not champion,
not lauded, merely dignified
by ocean cruising up the toes,
sand a-foot, sun and shadow,
or, camped out on the rocks,
as waves roll in,
a sanguine pose amidst
sharp-shinned splinters splattering.
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dear john, a good poem, sanguinely posed. enjoyed. regards, sk.