To fail forwards on a single message,
I am wed to be at beck of your convenience,
my expectations consequential to your command.
And in tracing steps in rubble,
no footprints match your own in dust and discard,
as if I were but a passenger to this obedience.
Outlined in rags is where my reflection lies
when understood in the veins of your demand,
crawling to craft snow angles out of fragments.
Failing ever far forward for futile fables,
I am awed by the absence of convenience
when my own messages are unheard.