Towers
With trembling hands, I push the button again—
watch my skyscraper crumble,
see it collapse into another pile of dust
in my cemetery of past models.
It was a beautiful building,
plenty of glass windows and high ceilings.
I thought this might have been the one—
the final design with no need for modifications.
And yet the fractures show up again,
proving its foundation was never stable.
I could have feigned ignorance, let it stay up longer—
watch the cement crack, the wood splinter,
convince myself "no tower is perfect,"
that flaws are quirks to simply accept.
But, of course, discontent takes hold of me.
A curse, where in a sea full of beauty,
all it can see is imperfection—
a beast with a hunger it cannot flee.
So once again, I tear it down, brick by brick,
saying goodbye to all the parts I made with love
in swift destruction.
It hurts to witness the death
of something so carefully crafted—
a sharp reminder of impermanence.
As I stand and look at the miles of barren ground,
dust still not yet settled from its predecessor’s explosion,
I straighten and wear my best smile.
Cuz a blank slate means a fresh beginning—
the birthplace of potential.