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Aiming at an Unworthy Target
Folder:
Loving Tributes I wish I could
match his caliber
let my fingers be
coated with more
than purely his
gunpowder residue.
But he pierced holes
into my plan
to be a better poet
than he when he
aimed his pistol of
inspiration and fired.
Now I collect
the bullets that
ricocheted off
my closed-off heart
and endlessly examine
the wounds he left,
the tears in my fleshly
pursuit to achieve
the art of perfection
because I've realized
he had claimed it
all for himself.
