Everytime someone talks of perfection,
I lean on the cold pillars of this world,
Scratching a surface to find an idea,
Which can tag something as perfect,
Accepted by living beings in unison,
It's a moment of a constant churning,
Of different thoughts from distinct origin,
Which have been dropped in my mind,
At regular intervals without a permit,
And I fail repeatedly to find an answer,
To a simple question,"what's perfect?"
As the list of qualities remains infinite,
Answer never survived in small confines,
Breaking each time a new brick was added,
To an invisible wall of "perfection".