To Err Is Human

We were built with hinges,

not halos.

Knees that buckle.

Tongues that misfire.

Hands that reach too quickly

or not at all.

We mistake the shadow for the door,

call pride courage,

call silence peace.

We say always

when we mean today,

and never

when we mean I am afraid.

History is a long hallway

of fingerprints on wet paint.

Every generation

pressing its palm against the wall

before the plaster dries.

I have bruised you

with sentences sharpened

in the small grindstone of my hurt.

I have locked my jaw

around apologies

like they were secrets

instead of keys.

Even the clock errs—

loses seconds

in the soft machinery of time.

Even the compass trembles

near iron.

What hope, then,

for a creature made of pulse

and appetite

and memory?

Still—

we try.

We write corrections

in the margins of our living.

We learn the weight of our names.

We kneel

before the wreckage we have made

and call it by its true shape.

To err is human—

a confession carved into bone,

a reminder that we are

unfinished statues

still warm

from the quarry.