The Target

The Target


hot air balloons anchored deep beneath my dig,

staring at potential with the ability to measure it,

the results so solid, the process so transparent,

gaping holes puss fear into my clock,

dark miscellaneous punctuation stamps suspicion in my grammar,

trapped between the parenthesis of a whisper to loud to share,

I don’t spill anymore, I leak incredibly slow,

crouching anxiously behind time as not to be found,

there’s simply too much I need to finish,

ideas heavy as dump trucks,

filled with riddles I’ve not been smart enough to figure out,

though I feel its colors and worship its meaning,

I set the table, served the meal, and listened eagerly for the doorbell to ring,

but it didn’t.

they didn’t find the interest the way I did,

embarrassed by my own confidence in self,

I slid the lights down low and waited…

waited for something new, something that would stick,

something that appreciated the attention in my need to keep digging,

because this job is never finished, and it seems to only grow deeper,

until hopefully… one day we do get to it,

a day when there is something to touch,

to save, to polish, to show,

a statue of perfect completion that can stand on my smile,

so that I and everyone who ever knew me,

can salute it, get its autograph, and then maybe just maybe,

there would be enough time left to try something new


By: Bryan Matthew Boutwell /