perfect

perfect

perfection

who knows perfection? thoughtless, blind or the wise?
looking at people with pupil’s constricted
confined to contours created by man and
a pursuit of perfection so pertinent
that relentless rejection retells stories
orated over and over till no end
“where is perfection? it is nowhere found here”
so the wise man sees, but the blind man thinks “its
just furthered down, drowned by purposeless pursuits”
only the thoughtless knows perfection is there

dissonance disappears into the distance
disappointment vanishes right by its side
disarray and disillusionment as well
and nothing but perfection is left behind
not much has changed, the chills are the same, and look
smog still smothers the air, death dwells after life
and pain still paints portraits of scorned emotions
but out of the ashes, harmony appears
and what's more, humanity is nowhere found
except the thoughtless who saw perfect before


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i wrote this couple years ago, but its still my favorite thing that i wrote

perfection

His tossing dreams met an eternal endurance to hold on to the wisps of her visage, the watermark at dawn that always silted past his fingertips; his barred thoughts, overrun and conquered by her regal beauty, never able to give way to speech; his actions embodying his locked infatuation, no longer to be suppressed by his flesh and bone alone. His heart quickened at the sound of her voice, but stopped at the ephemeral moment of colliding gazes.

Yet, the constant battle for his conscience and his conscious rampaged on, a contentious fight between what he wanted and what he could have. Her thoughts were barren and empty of his. The bell brought a fleeting sensation of hope into his body, along with the irrepressible twitch of his hallucination. His dream would live on, never to be embodied, yet perpetually lasting in the same effect. The ideal he held in his mind was real, and held even a tangible feeling to it.

However, it was no matter, for reality still held the responsibility of being reality and encompassing the truth of society. He held his dream to his heart, to let it soar though the fragments of his distorted imagination, for he knew if the dream was to resurrect, it would just spiral down the well of realism. No perfection is to be found in the eyes of mortal aesthetic, only dreams. The masquerade of flesh always hides its face from light.