The flashes of brilliance under pressure
shrouded in mediocrity — who is it for?
Is it fooling anyone, and is it really there
for all to see, or is it just another show?
And even then, how would they know?

Feebleness betrays a pride in the precision
I can almost trace. Some hint of excellence
diluted or deluded, I dare not say.
No need for further evidence than what is seen
though I swear I see the shades of yesterday.

Then you miss an assigned responsibility,
fumble clumsily, and fall down
in an ego-shattering reminder that this yesterday
was some fifteen years ago, if it existed at all.
Is it imagination in a past you vaguely recall?

And does it really even matter what you were
in this dream finally realized,
continually unfolding in triumph and defeat?
None of these should be trapped in “why” and “how”
for yesterday has come and gone. It all starts Now.