​There is a certain beauty

In an imperfect thing

Evisioned as a perfect map

From an imperfect mind

Some broken state of being

A catastrophic creation

A cup with a chip

A blemished bowl

Some alliterated altercation

Long ago, or closer still

An historic fascination

When this being became complete


When viewed through a perfect lens

Of a perfect idea

Of that which is no longer

By an imperfect mind

And forced to confirm this self

This deluded force

Which sees what isn’t there

And in the absence of perfection



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