A poem:

weary,
reclining at day's end.
the darkening sky breathes heavily upon my soul -
'I know your ache.'
light slips through one's fingers with
every thought, word, deed that is
tainted by regret.
gently,
a dove glides through my mind
resting now upon my heart.
‘failure - I consider not of what you sigh.
my love for you would increase by nought
were you perfect nigh.’

I wrote this poem in 1988. Things were not going too well at the time:

Resigned into a mire of paralysing fear.
Paralysed by fear to hope
Hope for something better, that things may
improve
The tentative moment of hope instantly
devoured by the locust that plagues my
mind, emotions and spirit.
The inevitable turning sour, the withering of
relationships, the retreat to inhumanity.
The warmth of dignity, respect and care chilled
to leave a barren wasteland, despised
for what it should have been.
A soul empty, afraid. In turmoil, torn between
what it should be and what it is.
Aspiration that persist despite the constant
blows of experience.
Aspirations that inspire hope
Aspiration planted by the Creator
Aspirations that torment and tease by suggesting
hope that is destined to be dashed again
and again and again.