The buds are blossoming in my garden
Delicate, serene, pure
They whisper unassuming of perfection
The antithesis of my disturbing reflection
I wonder of my slow descent
From daisy to dirt. Spent. Unspent.
Longing to form as perfectly as a petal
Pert as a peach, a vision to revel
The vision in the river is tired and sinking
Malformed, wilted, tainted
It goads sinister of my imperfection
No lotus beneath awaiting erection
I stab at the ugly until muds start to swirl
Breaking the broken. Furl. Unfurl.
Dissolving deep until nothing is left
My hunt for perfection, my soul is bereft
What if perfection is when dust makes a star?
Or the point in the journey, when you know not where you are?
Who decides what is perfect? Them, you or me?
Perhaps perfection, is when you learn to be free?
Free from the plastic and free from the crowd
Free from the noise that was always too loud
Free from the false prophets and the lies that they keep
Free from the unTruth that taught you to creep
The buds are blossoming in my unrest
Determined, unapologetic, enchanting
They cast a spell upon complicit confusion
Delivering me far from this delectable delusion
Perfect imperfection, I rise just for me
If tomorrow, I fall, my fall will be free