The poem died on the table. No attempts
to resuscitate were made, it had given up
trying to be whatever it was meant
to be: sonnet, pantoum, heroic couplets. 

It never achieved in life what it hoped to achieve,
put down on a post-it stuck to the fridge,
a place in a eulogy, read on TV,
in a book of secular messages.

As we all, this poem reached for the stars
only to fall tumbling into the sea.
Congratulations for getting this far.
Regret that it never realized its dreams. 

There might be use for some parts, title, feet,
what this poem lacked was a steady heartbeat.