Fearing that my edge will fail
when I most need it to stay
sharp and ready
is to imagine myself
dropped upon rock,
dulled so profoundly
I would be tossed aside
for some newer blade,
left behind like my memory
of singing through air
long ago, opening a clearing
in which to build.
Was I ever that, though —
that honed, that useful?
I look back and see nothing
like a clearing there —
just metal discarded, glinting
like lost potential.
Dark Matter 
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