And all in superb continuity,
all in this contiguous perfection of state,
yet how can I relate,
so imperfect, malformed and innate,
the flow of nature’s breath an epiphany,
its sprawl and vast infinite ways
my corruption cast in shadowed days.
If a flower is perfect in every way,
just and cycled life ensuing,
then what of my decay, my fleeting tainted doing,
is perhaps a perfection of whole,
an aspect of balance that renders beauty in perspective,
if only I could feel it so,
the mirror must lie and me accept the blow.
Oh sentient mind, you malicious plight,
you drive me to delusions of my own mind,
and then as if taunted for life,
drop a bomb on all I see in light,
to know I am a living thing, within eternal flight,
and thus a perfect potential in movement,
a perfection of flux, unlike my limited sight.
Perfection then reigns, unopposed,
and I its bleak slow-learning cousin, fear,
when all is just and flowing as meant,
and I in ego’s concern see just blemishes,
that are me wholly, reality my fetishes,
and acceptance my lesson,
for all in existence is perfect, not still.
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