An End Unto Itself Poem by Dean Meredith

Yes I must confess
I would do the same
And not live up to
The grounds I expected
Of her
Those lofty unclimbable heights
Only scalable by slithering serpents
Or reachable by creatures with wings
I subconsciously set the target
Well beyond the range of any arrow
Including my own
How despicably unfair?
On myself and others
The mountain stands old and undeniable
It sets its lures as surely as the fishermen below
The targets too are obvious in their wanting need
None are complete without at least the attempt
Oh the dreams of success
The summits, the bullseyes, the celebrations
All those failures and misses
Exalting the lucky and persistent
How the narrow focus finds its mark
Yet forgets all else
How the specialist seems so special
But remains an idiot savant
Happy in his own simplicity
Scorned by pretenders
Inflated with regret
And his insight only seeing himself
Nothing left except confession