Life isn’t a dead end, but perfection is, once achieved
It is hard to turn back or look the other way
It is the road to disappointment, leaving us asking for more
The end cannot be seen, the mind is a poor barometer
The infinite uses the tool of imperfection, it is the key
To everything that is playing out, with just a glimpse
How may one fathom that scale? With or without the hands of time
Growth can never stop, like the deep blue sky, without beginning or end
The mind should know better, desires mimic that expanse
It has not perfected the art of quenching its thirst
Imperfections offer a glimpse of inner beauty, but we source pain from it
Happiness is found in growing out of imperfection, not resting in perfection
