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Failure ©

Mark McKay
Bathgate, Scotland

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.

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