Becoming

Never perfect until death we understand

a little more of who we are each day,

not really metacognitive. Unplanned

we grope our way

towards the being who we call ourselves; play

at being finished in each moment. The sand

of time still trickles through but does not run away.

Never perfect until death we understand

but very little of who we might become, and

yet can look back at those golden grains and say

that part of myself was also me. Thus we command

a little more of who we are each day

but only what is past.  We cannot stray

from any beaten path, we beat our own, demand

acceptance of our present state and thus portray,

(not really metacognitive - unplanned)

a version of ourselves which others can identify. And

the truth of who we are is on display

seen passing in the movement of the second hand.

We grope our way

in opposition to our former self, this might cause dismay

to those who knew us once, in seeing us again, the stand

we take at any given time is made to weigh

as part of us, but we're both finifugal and unplanned, 

never perfect until death.