I used to think my life was my poem -
I assigned myself the task of ordering its chaotic parts
Into a positive whole, subordinating my emotions and feelings
and adorning it with all kind of intricated
Graces appropriate to its worth.

Never has this mortal soul been so foolish.
I haven't been able to give it a modicum of fashion.
It is incomplete,  imperfect, precarious.   A total failure.

All is vanity, confusion and accident.
Our self is utterly powerless against the private passions
of the human heart.
Everyone is alone and separate and is nothing more
Than the poor thing that is himself.

I was of course mistaken - my life is no poem .