Failure

Trusted producer of crimson cheeks That could last for weeks: Prime source of the running temperature Of seekers of a different picture, The hammering heart beats few people bear When nothing is going to happen till next year. The arms that go limp and the brooding shoulders with which the failed recline on sympathizer elders; The rest remain a consoling hypothesis And sometimes an irksome synthesis; Failure, as a necessary stop - over along life’s highway And an attestation to life not a being a child’s play Neither den-inhabiting lion Nor a scalding hot iron… A whip with the whacks of encouragement Not scheming on the skin to print a disparagement. The blind and his many eyes The blind does his walking, With his trusted staff a- tapping, His approach broadcasting, Measured steps minding, As his fall is his loathing The driest on the subject of color, Unless as a fairy tale, To not here display valor, As he ‘d a trillion times fail Sure to be begging your pardon; Upon describing Yellow And completely in London, As you portray the More Mellow… Nevertheless equipped with the keener than normal, Condition-warranted wisdom far from formal, Fingers expertly feeling one twice To later fish one out thrice: Ears magically catching the faintest mumble From the heady and the humble And nostrils familiar with the smell of his workers And body odor of housebreakers.