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…