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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]