The best of worlds do not provide
    A cure for defects that I hide;
    A cure that has been long denied
    The essence that is me.

My essence, molten, poured in sand,
    With defects caused by careless hands,
    Has hardened, but now life demands
    That "perfect" I should be.

The future of my life has passed
    This way before but now, at last,
    The die, imperfect, long since cast,
    Shows cracks that all can see.