I am too enchanted with my failures,
Too immersed in my orgy of self-doubt.
Like a withering rose, I approach my end
With placid unease. What might I have been,
A question unanswered in the Universe.
What did God know when he made me,
And when did S(he) know it?
This has been sitting in my draft folder for some time, now. I don’t know what category, except personal, it which it belongs. It’s not quite poetry (but then so little of what I call my poetry is), but I like and want to keep it.