The Iilusion of Perfection

Can you draw a line so straight That microscopes cannot debate How perfectly you've drawn a line Only your mind ever creates? Would you rather have to cope With stars that shine in perfect files? At such a sight I would but mope, And with a rampant star elope. Words like broken shards of glass Disseminate into the air And fall with all their wordy gloss Into my injured hand with care. I'd rather by the odds be shunned Than afterwards rummage the ground For perfect pieces, leaving down The beautiful defective ones. No human is symmetrical, No paintings fair except the frauds. Dreams would fade were clouds not fickle. Laud the skies with lightning flawed. Pages perfect, you would think, Are bland and vapid without ink; Without the spots to paint a life And plant a tree with blemished leaf. Music's not a single sound That goes forever; pure, profound. A shift in pitch when scales ascend, Would make it rich and pertinent. If perfection were divine, It would uphold no earthly frame. Its structure would elude the mind With an illusion of its fame That would suffice to keep us sane.