Dear Disappointment

Fantasy runs on a treadmill,
burning yellow energy
and losing its breath
before crossing the legendary
finish line. You've demonstrated
exemplary effort, but none
of it sincere.

Damn my watch for ticking
away. I'm five feet eight,
and over my fifteenth
when you forgot to call.

Burn away, cowardly vigor.
After your millionth chance
to become something useful,
you smoldered to ashes
in the palm of my hand.