What you wish may be a blemish: A poem 

The lock and key that you used on the door 

The letters of self-rebuke never rising from the floor 

The sea is an expanse, too small is the shore 

There couldn’t be an after, if there was no before 

If there was no cause or pause to think, no eye to blink 

A hand needing help, meant just a little nothing 

That a cold star that shunned, didn’t dare to shine 

A luxuriant vineyard had the most bitter-tasting wine 

If one were no mixture, but had the texture of stone 

The much-needed lessons were shorn to be foregone 

Didn’t look back at the bridges burnt for aspiration alone 

Illusions are a blizzard leaving a chill in the soul’s bone 

A response to instincts galore for the sequins one wore 

The calling for more reeked stink from every pore 

Just may be what you wish is an unwanted blemish 

A scar by far, when one always wants the best dish