From infant days
I was cast aside.
Driftwood left
on the shore
as an ugly shadow
of what used to be
a strong
and capable thing.
A thing
is now all
that remains.

It stands to be
that from out the past
of our broken
hearts and dreams
we walk and wonder
and tear at the seams.
Ripped away from morbid
tradgedies stand,
dreamers building
castles in washed away sands.

Hopelessness forces
hope to be re-born.
The product of
a stained purity
raped by
failed attempts
at purpose.

Twelve runs,
but holds onto breath
with death's never ceasing,
never leasing grip
till Twenty-seven
opens the doors,
and cries are given
and revision trancends
the tradgey to love
set to sport.

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