Imperfect

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.

Written by L.M. McBean

Image Credit: Cambion Art