Perfection

"Perfection" is another old piece, and in interesting concept in and of itself. This poem stems not necessarily from my own views, because it was written to compliment a drawing given to me once upon a time. My old friend Erica Hegebarth(now Horton)drew it up, and I was so taken with it that she gave it to me. Unfortunately, I don't have a digital copy of it, but imagine a human like figure from the waist up, and below tentacles that are rising up, filling the form. There are shreds of skin still clinging to the tentacles, and the figure itself is looking out of a window frame that is suspended from the top of the page by some flesh like strands. It sounds more grizzly than it actually is, but I am still taken with it. Erica told me some of what she was thinking about when she drew it, and I combine that with my own ideas to write it.


Perfection

Peaceful; green; such perfect streets.
Perfect houses, perfect people, perfect trees.
Gazing out upon it all as the sun retreats,
Wonders I what it is everyone sees.

And as they walk their perfect dogs along,
Perfect feet in perfect shoes; a perfect beat,
Humming in perfect tune the perfect song,
The perfect song for this day’s feat.

And how look I to their perfect eyes,
My perfect house, it’s perfect lawn,
And thinking of their perfect blindness, sighs,
What caused this perfect light to dawn?

So perfect in their lonely perfect dreams,
Spending cash with the perfect aspirations of yore,
When will they realize it’s all just seems?
Would they abandon isolation and knock upon my door?

And if they would their reflection perceive,
Would they know perfection’s shattered mirror
While their greater skills continue to deceive,
Holding them back with their own hidden fears?

Who would look upon this mine home
To see my imperfections set down as manifold?
Would see my reflection as theirs, alone;
The harsh truth in the empty dreams of old.

The ugly truth that I know as me,
Knows that these streets are hollow too...
If they would but their empty hearts see…
If they knew that truth, what would they do?

Alas their perfect world is a bed of molded lies.
I can tell from this place what’s been said,
That comforting illusion to deceit ties
And the sad truth that they are dead.

They only see a perfect image
Through a perfect window shown,
Yet I know the truth of sacrilege –
The truth that we are perfected alone.

Though knowledge is in form, light,
Looked to, through, and cast aside:
Knowledge is truest corruption; blight
Forever the gateway of illusion denied.

So I’ll watch the imperfected world go,
Saddened by their hollow smiles,
Knowing what they may never know –
Perfection’s illusion truth defiles