If the price for a holding a rose
Wasn’t the thorn in my flesh,
And the aftermath of sunsets
Utter darkness
If lightning didn’t illuminate
For just a split second,
Then that would be perfect,
And of that I’d be fond.
If beauties weren’t beasts
Hiding underneath,
And princes, just frogs
Waiting for the moment to leap
If knights in shining armours
Weren’t pure fiction
It would be perfect,
And a damsel would have one.
If sheep weren’t clothes for wolves,
They all being dead;
And beautiful chariots,
Just pumpkins instead;
If fairy godmothers
Turned mice into men,
Perfect, it would be,
I’d hope to see it, but when?
But nothing is perfect
At least, not for me;
For my beautiful moments
Turn out to be dreams.
At the end of my rainbow
Is no pot of gold;
Neither at the end of my struggles,
Riches untold.
Whether I’ll see perfection,
I do not know.
In my morbid existence
I frequently mope;
Or maybe, I’m just like a bat,
Blind as can be;
For perfect,
I never did, and still cannot, see.
—
Copyright © 2019 Larisa McBean
Image Credit: Cambion Art
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