I must have been under the weather, or mentally malnourished, or who knows what, but in my exalted opinion, I was a screwup last night. The only bright outcome was that my companions were still alive at sunrise, I did provide true compassion, and there was no measure of a shortened existence, other than the usual passage of time, that everyone is accountable for within the context of their own lifespan. I have made this intentionally vague, to protect the guilty.

Beyond Measure

I worked nowhere near my potential

Far below my possible peak,

Could I blame it on a Sunday

The proverbial end of the week?

Although I hadn't slaved or overworked

My mind was in under-drive,

If you observed me from a distance

You might wonder if I was alive.

How many things I overlooked

I am embarrassed to admit,

If you had to follow my performance

You might develop a snit,

And possibly grumble, snarl and mumble

Inhibiting perfected profanity,

The end-result of my hand off

May have driven you to insanity.

From my point of view, I failed beyond measure

But time is the ultimate reaper,

If I were to judge me, on this singular moment

I wouldn't qualify to be a street-sweeper,

But with the experience of decades of living

I've come to accept the inescapable,

Some days I'm a rip-roaring genius

And other times, completely incapable.

Luckily, imperfection runs rampant

Amidst the society that I keep,

And in time my miserable performance

Will reside at the bottom of a heap,

Of old memories, never to be revisited

Rehashed, reworked or reviewed,

Reliving such miserable moments?

Why surely my psyche would be screwed.

Fibril_late;

7/28/08