Remorse

I sat in the stone like a reserved fairy,

waiting for my magic spell,

My eyes

Blinked once and as I opened them,

I saw dusts sprinkled like tiny confetti’s dancing,

Their swaying colors of spectrum

landed on my spot,

Hitting the stone

Naked,

I cupped them with my hands,

Nothing happened, they slipped through my hands like sand.

I again waited for another magic spell, another chance, I said.

Not even a dust drizzled,

None of those dancing tiny confetti’s showed up,

Those tiny confetti’s were important for I

could have written a poem out of the dust if only I were able to cup a hand full of it.

I could have danced before my masterpiece as I form tiny

sand-castled words beside the stone,

But it is useless for I could not have that chance again,

I am supposed to form a single compact line,

a line that should never be erased by a wind and the dissolving ability of water—

as promising as Ozymandia’s head.