A Collection of Mistakes
There is no elixir in the bottles.
They have been emptied by the desperate,
dried by time and have become decor,
all of them tried and found lacking,
or perhaps, here and there, a true miracle
cure, mind over matter, belief
exerting its muscles.
You keep them, these bright spots of color
and hope. It matters not that they did not cure
your ailments of heart and broken soul.
They are part of your journey,
a collection of mistakes you wear,
if not proudly, with a certain amazement
that you could survive so many.
About this poem
One good thing about aging and having made most of the mistakes. You know you will survive, no matter what.
And oh, the value that has!