And the failure is…

 
I somehow win at failing, this award
given to me.  Mutely I hold it, eyes
glazed in honor’s bile.

There is a trend towards crystal,
hard edges beveled and scratch-white
engravings, blazed in scars’ facts.

Lined up, these polished soldiers
savor imperfections. Flawed in
glared reflection, they are indigestible.

I place the new recruit on the shelf,
disgorging established order. The spewed
rhetoric spatters, and slowly dribbles out.

I swallow after-burns in acrid thoughts,
spit full in the recognition of my
misachievements.

I retch my thanks in return, then spot
the trophy won for ignoring myself –
oh look, I gush, this one needs dusting.