Perfection.
Something wonderful
it seems;
draws our grasping hands
that are bleeding with the cracks of imperfection.
Dirtied by their work
and smudged by gray frustration...
why is this illusion so endearing?
Something tempting
it would seem.
We grapple harder still
when we are told that we will never reach it.
If we don’t? Why search?
If we do? What for?
It is only to arrive at death
and give it something perfect to destroy.
I wonder why,
why is this illusion so alluring? |