What a Waste

I was

a drying sculpture

knocked over

now laying on the floor,

crumpling,

losing its shape,

that had been labored over

for so,

so,

long

what a waste

for I was a soldier

preparing for a war

that would never

be waged

what a waste

training all my life

sacrificing myself

to have the privilege

of one day

giving myself to the world

and leaving it

better than

how I found it

only for that training

never to come

to fruition

what a waste

and what was

the point of thought

if with me

would die all

thoughts I’ve had

never permeating

into the world

locked

in my skull

decaying deep

in the Earth

and how many beautiful,

precious thoughts

have died

with their creator

never to be had

ever again

what a waste

and If I were to fall

before I could

finish crafting

my mind

to finally begin

to heal those

who suffer

in this world

who would carry my torch

just the way I did

protecting its fragile flame

from the blistering winds

seeking to snuff it out

from all sides

enduring in a world

that seeks to beat the empathy

from even the purest souls

turning angels

into zombies

what a fucking waste