Perfection, That Endless Creation.

 

At the tail end of infinity, the mark of perfection is drawn.

With a secret fantasy of invincibility, we are born.

The wish to be without blemish. To approach being above reproach.

No missed takes, unaccustomed to mistakes.

Ultra-self sufficiency without knowledge of inadequacies.

A Midas of sorts, whose deeds and words are 99 karat gold plated.

Wanting what can’t be had, seeking what won’t be found,

reaching for what can’t be met, never ever saying never.

Mortals stride on a worldwide quest for a portal that hides inside their chest.

In learning, man glimpses immortality in fleeting glances.

The divine visits the mortal’s city only on rare instances.

To one, perfection is a verb. For the other, it’s a noun.

Should the faultless and flawless walk amongst the living,

in a fortnight the crown for a saviour would be given.

Lifetimes spent trying to defy gravity; like iron in water seeking to be paper.

Who has found loop-holes in the theories of the laws of nature?

Yet, a self-aware creature craves and carves a perfect mold into which to mature.

In faint echoes, comes the call to be partakers of the divine nature.

A past life long forgotten.

Lost memories of how it felt.

Vague account of what it was.

We toss and turn in an eternal dream of self-realization,

cutting ties with the “real world”, to be born once more.

The god in man rises from the deep sleep,

when that two-sided unending reach finally meets.

Ironic, wrongs would make one go farther,

moving up the rungs of Jacob’s Ladder.

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