Straining for perfection
I have no wound
denying my weaknesses and frailty
becoming saintly is a dangerous thing
living in a state of denial
a thing no saint ever did
it is in humanity and humility that
saintliness is born
in learning to not only live with woundedness
but embrace as mentor and friend
without our wounds we are one dimensional
unreal unbelievable
plaster saints
unattractive
it’s the slip of the tongue
the misguided enthusiasm
the self dillussion
masquerading as self confidence
that wins us over again and again
we like our heroes flawed
but not too much
I am like that
hearing myself in their story see myself about to fall
tripping on a banana skin
recipient of a custard pie
now I can identify
something to get my teeth into
aspiration
before
with only my wounds I journey the land as a tragic soul
unaware of flowers
to smell
kiss of sun
breath of wind
song of brambling brook
consumed by self importance
concerned more with the keeping of appearance
than the discipline of learning my lines
developing discernment
knowing when to speak them
