The fabric of my essence was weaved with ambition and possibilities

I used to be bound immaculately in glistening threads of potential

The more I polished, the more my future would shine

I would labour long and hard to give birth to my dreams

My perspiration would give my ebony skin a new layer of determination and in my mind’s eye my path was set

I was drunk on what I was going to become and no amount of deviation would sober me from my intoxication

But as life would have it, the fabric of my essence wore out

The threads loosened, and my future slowly dimmed out

I could no longer conceive and I lay barren in a bed scattered with disappointment

The blood of my dead dreams staining the sheets

What am I to become when my present tense died in my past tense

I am a mild tidal wave in a tsunami of unrealised potential

My hopes and dreams are shipwrecked on the beach of opportunities

The verb in me is sea sick yet there is no motion

I personify stagnation, ambition dead in a grave of non-action

I am the coffin, the mourners and the funeral procession

There is no heaven for my dreams

My ambition is destined to a fate worse than hell: Eternal Purgatory