I see how imperfect I am.
It hurts me to see,
That I am still so unpolished,
Still with selfish seed,
And with childish weed.
Perhaps I did learn some over the years,
Yet I feel the progress so slow,
Ups and downs, highs and lows,
How many more tomorrows,
Till I can be more like You.
But perhaps progress,
Is better than regress,
Even with some digress,
But still better nevertheless.
Inching forward,
Bit by bit,
Hopefully ready,
By the time we meet,
And thereafter.
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