Life’s a game of perfecting time,
Wound tightly around the confines
Of fleeting moments,
Our expectant destinies
And cherished memories.
I never know when to stop,
Or for that matter when to start.
My skills lay not in playing
With time’s allusions.
I’m left to my own devices – advice
Which I suggest to myself
I should politely refuse.
But the ticking never pauses
To let the lost find their way.
Instead I make what I can
With what I have, and pray
To God that the reality
Of my failures is far less enormous
Than it seems in the mirror each morning.