Indeed; I failed at everything I did.
How clear are flaws in all I ever built!
As words reveal more faults than can be hid
I do not write to expiate my guilt.
Believing that a lack of discipline;
imperfect cultivation of a gift;
is evil minded, self-indulgent sin,
on seas of sorrow I should be adrift.
But, magically, I find in grateful age
not mere contentment, placid peace of mind;
but new delight in beauties that engage
my fancy, thoughts, and senses. They all find
diurnal ecstacy: a bubbling joy.
My sins, unjustly, work no dull alloy.
[from the Desert of my Heart and Mind by F.J.A.Pockley 1912-1990]