A Limb of Boredom

Collected dirt, trapped under a finer fingernail,
residue of a blue dye, the mark of wet leather,
scores of unrecalled moments, lost to my blinking eyes,
this is what I am responsible for, the lack of order.

Perhaps a room full of plastic boxes,
waiting for something to hold and keep,
a clashing assortment of colors,
painted in a hidden corner of this room,
an indecision of light, shade and hue,
these, my hands, are but petty cranes.

The thud of a weary drum, beating for a battle,
wandering paces crossing the field in shoes,
laying dormant, yet moving all the while,
in space but throughout time, toe to toe,
impatiently cracking, all to break open the door,
these, my feet, are but instable wedges.