Imperfect Imperfection

If words were capable
Of doing their office
Suitably well
Distilling thought into language
Visions into sound
You and I,
Therefore: We
Would not be at an impasse
Unable to communicate
Too eager to try
Though trying to do a thing
While accepting that it will,
That it can only be done
Badly
Is a waste of effort
As blowing on the flames of hell
To snuff them out
Is a waste of breath.
Still we try
Though trying counts for nothing
When mediocrity is the highest measure of success
Though, when it comes to words
There are too many of them
And too few
To truly say anything.