In a culture fixated on achievement, a poem that celebrates the beauty of incompletion. It’s a lyrical sidestep—embracing ambiguity, revision, and the quiet joy of never quite arriving. Mischief, not medals.
Success is not a golden gate, but tasks erased, a silent bell— a list gone blank, a tidy fate, the echo of a job done well.
And where to run when all is crossed? The map folds in, the chase is through. Completion comes at too much cost— it leaves no room for something new.
I’d rather live in half-made lines, in drafts that hum, in thoughts unspun. The joy is not in grand designs, but in the mess, the not-quite-done.
Success is not a final score, but motion, pause, and sideways glance. A door ajar, a cluttered floor— the beauty of a failed advance.
So let me fail with flair and grace, revise, return, and start again. Success is not a finished place— it’s chasing ghosts in wind and rain.
Success evaporates. The joy is in walking away before the list finishes you.
Harry is a recovering satirist, part-time philosopher, and metadata tinkerer. His archive spans two decades of metaphysical mischief, theological punchlines, and poetic nonsense. He believes in satire’s transformative power, the elegance of expressive metadata, and recursion—once writing a poem that never ended and a script that crashed browsers.
