Each day I skim a thimbleful of expectation,
From a Loch Ness deep well of hope,
Then spill the precious droplets on the sand,
Of my failure.
Each week I see the vine of my redemption,
Desperately gasping for undelivered sustenance,
Then the promising buds of happiness shrivelling,
Never to fruit.
Each month I scrape the rust from my resolve,
Naively painting over its crumbling bodywork,
Then stand back and admire in mock pride,
The shoddy job.
Each year I dig the meaningless resolutions,
From the cold and dusty attic of my soul,
Displaying the gaudy baubles of my lies,
For all to see.