To be obsessed with failure

is a bad finale, the vacuous mind-set

of senility.

Guilt can only breed regret

and regret gives way to the soggy tinder

of frustration,

too wet with tears

to spark the forge of time; to bend

back the hours, melt the rigid arrow

mercilessly pointing

forward.

Who observes what we are meant

to be?

Who knows one’s being

made perfect?

The flawless one,

the unlonely life, the life

fulfilled?

We know instead, only what

we have become.

Honesty relieves us of our vanities,

embraces folly - ours and theirs.

Then grace includes us in

the limping company of broken travelers,

chatting up the journey

and leaves perfection to the

ninety nine.