Paging Ozymandias

Of what you could once have accomplished in life,
just counting ten years -
you've rung less than a tithe.

Can you sit back and dream,
and imagine your skills, in a world where you gave a shit
what you could build? The sharper you'd be, the farther
you'd throw! The higher you'd stand on the shoulders of your
own colossal Bysshe-Shelley-esque self-monument

My works,

and despair -

I could mean, I have meant.
I could bend, I have bent

but my shoulders shrug most
of the burdens off left and off right, and I coast.

I was born more for hammocks than hammers
and tongs, though I sometimes wish
I had one more of me on
double-duty for two
me the master:
he slave

Somebody should give everything that God gave to me back

- back to everything,
everyone,

all.

I'm sorry. I owe an apology:

To that high self
who I am, who I
could have been, who
really truly deserved
to stand ever so tall.

I think that he could have been better than I

could ever have been.

He would not mind the fall.