The IIlusion Of Perfection

Written by: Gael Attal

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.