Someone took the scissors from the print room at work.
Someone left a passive-aggressive note to ask for their return.
Someone returned the scissors and created a metaphysical dilemma.
Where are the scissors?
Have they ever moved?
Where am I?
What is this place?
How can we be sure what we are seeing is real?
What is my relationship to something I perceive?
Do I create the scissors or do the scissors create me?
Why am I shaking?
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
Imperfect
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
Beauty.
C.T. Curio 