Oh Trevor Stains, the man remains
committed to claims of glazed
porcelains.

No. No no. None of that fancy
rhyming everything with ains agains
you silly man.

Trevor takes his pottery very
sensibly, which you would know if
you showed any interest.

The man toils in clay, sculpting
worth from earth, in dazzling stature
of crockery and ornament.

There is nothing Trevor cannot create
within the confines of his wheel and
water and mould!

Trevor’s taken to doing a whole
bunch of side projects in the months
since he last appeared.

Pottery is the current one but oh
there has been so much else, such
as the break dancing competition.

Yeah. Did not know anything about
that did you? Or what about the
hotdog eating contest?

Or the sonnet he wrote for his
wife. Yeah, Trevor got married, and
you do not know.

You are a bad pomeit, Veeg, missing
entire swathes of your friend’s life
and for what?

What was so important that Trevor
took a backseat? Trevor became a part
of the background sea of life.

I know what it was, for essentially
I am talking to myself, and Trevor
is a standing.

There are chunks of the world where
I spent time and formed connections
that withered and split.

I feel sorry for the disarray, the
neglect, the loss, the knowledge
that it was one outcome of many.

Life moves and sweeps and you are
but a part of the wave, clinging on
to whatever you can.

But the strength to dive, to surf,
to moor on coral, grabbing hold of
things dear remains.

My failure echoes throughout this
beach, the crowd all but shimmers of
what could have beens.

My section, my life as actual still
loud and colourful, filling cups to
brims, no shame or worry present.

But still, the teases of what ifs,
of what becames and how abouts, they
dance to my sides, impish.

I may never truly set sights on
their silhouettes, never know their
true forms.

For this, I must be content, to allow
it to subside, like sandcastles
in high tide.