“Man’s greatest tragedy is that he can conceive of a perfection which he cannot attain.” – Lord Byron

Tomorrow I will be perfect, but not
Today—for now the status quo, for now
I promise to pay for what can’t be bought
With promises; sweat builds upon my brow
As I struggle with chains I never built
But that wrap me in iron all the same;
The free wield a furious flame that wilts
The dreams that bind me—Who am I to blame
Nature for my untamed mind, untrammeled
By reason, untaught by life, unknown by
Death? I who for a bright moment channeled
The sea into silence, her lullaby
Gone still? But no: She stirs, she waves, she foams!
Farewell sweet sleep! I rust, I lust, I roam.