Ahead of me a mirage,
A hunger for something,
Will always be fifty feet ahead,
On the grey pavement.
The more my fingers reach,
The farther away it becomes.
We are nothing but displaced.
Tired bodies resting like flat tires in a salvage yard.
I listen to a beautiful little voice upstairs.
Happy and singing.
I, too, want to sing, feel.
To be taken off this top shelf I have been hidden on.
Yet, I sit here, like an old mug, collecting dust,
That no one would want to ever display, nor drink from.
A waste of good cabinet space.
And without drink.