As many things do, this piece came to me in its entirety whilst doing a poo.
Plight of the bungled being.
Didn’t get it right,
got it all wrong.
Didn’t happen fast though I’m ashamed it took so long.
In 20/20 hindsight, with those stones in your hand.
I hope the panes through which you view are as thick as your throw is long.
And when the air is cleared by the breath of fresh winds of change,
I beg the ceiling lifted shows that clouds can still remain.
Before the stone like doubt is cast and judgement pending can be wronged,
let’s hope that jumping over loaded barrels; we can all refrain.
The sweetest smells that cling to breath can often foretell rot.
The scent of death can sometimes come when life abounds as blossoms bloom,
and coloured hills with heady waft do sense of mind besot.
So lest we make the similar trip in pathways set with fork and strife,
be still my gentle heart and mind the step as we go forth.
In life, as it is in the beginning.
Not right, not long,
fast as it slips through your hand blown by the winds of change.
Where we come to remain and be wronged.
As we attempt to refrain from the rot and strife.
Until we go forth from the beginning to reach the end;
this plight of the bungled being.