Perfection is a state of mind
That only those, imperfect find,
For such is life, we all must fall
And learn that we know naught at all.
Knowledge found in books and plays,
In life experience, in days
And years of searching for a meaning
In life and death, with woeful keening;
None but those, who humbly claim,
Perfection is no more than name –
For beauty woven by nature’s hand,
In mountains, lakes, on seas and land,
‘Tis truly perfect, for once made,
Their fairness falters not, nor fades.
But, perfect seen, in one’s reflection,
In looks or mind, is feint direction.
The breath that blows from starry skies
Looks down at us, cannot despise
The form of spirit generated,
Perfect will and Man, so mated,
With a world of plenitude;
Guardians of all that is truly good.
Perfection then, must surely be,
A measure of hypocrisy
If all that’s known is unrelated,
Ignorance of all that is created.
Perfection bows to one who’s greater
The light of life, unequalled maker.