Failing My Tools

High up here, amid this cold and alone, my tools might best be forgiven if they've long-since forgot that they deserve better. But the only lips my teacup have known are my blurburing two. The only ink my brush has known has been that scolded into some sorrowful form on this not-mulberry rock. The only skin this robe has known was that of this persistent perpetrator. It's yet to feel a worthy monk; the only sage its known is the sage I've crumbled into my pestle in pitiably inchoate mockery of an apothecary when my knee went turned and grew as big as my dreams. The only ears or heart my poems have reached up here, in this thin air, have been, has been my own - Source and resting place of my ignoble offerings. I forgive my cup. I forgive my robe. I forgive my brush. I forgive my flesh. It never knew better. It always deserved better. It never knew better.