• dreamy_eyes 6w

    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".