Perfect

(The lost poem of Chronicles of Chaos and Consonance)

The spirit of God keeps you alive
when all you want to do is to die and rest in peace,
provide peace to the pieces of your person that has fell apart
disfiguring and disassembling this work of art you call you
magnificent masterpiece all the way through
conned to believing that this is not true

Perfection is an illusion
colored by cleverly crafted confusion
Dangerous dream of deception and delusion
fantasy, fallacy, and factual fusion

Collected from the mind of Socrates
these things, these arts, these prophecies
What world? What realm? What place is this?
That the perfect chair, perfect table, perfect human exist?
The epitome of excellence, paradigm of pure
Faultless, flawless, foolproof to be sure
We see these things and give them names
because they are similar yet not the same
Call it a table, the four legs and a top
but what if it had three and yet did not drop?
Still does the job, and does it just fine
Even though it’s different than the kind in your mind
Three legged table is still a table in reality
Could that concept connect with concern to humanity
Different eyes, different hair, different faces and skin
All have Hearts, Lungs, livers and brains within
Different dreams, different thoughts and ideas from everyone
Same Earth, Same moon, Same stars, same sun
Perfect is precisely, exactly the same
as some other thing that has the same name
Perfect is a machine with no fault to blame
Flawed are the humans from whence it came
So if perfect can come from imperfect things
Reap all the blessings that imperfect brings
Take care of the things that are impeccably done
for they’re flawed for not being like the imperfect ones

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