Dishapened

Give it time, they say,
and you will find your way.
You will find your voice,
your form.

But after the conflagration and the fire
comes the cold what is left,
iron and glass alike is permanently dishapened

and you are left less with creation
than deciding whether you are rubble
or art.

About this poem

Yes, I know dishapened is not a word. But it ought to be.

Happily deciding to be art,

Tom