Is anything ever perfect

Is anything ever perfect

In life or death

When nothing, even time

Is ever constant

Answers are never definitive

No matter the question

The moon always changes its face

Hiding behind a cloud

To escape the error of its ways

The weight of its cowl

Turning a smile into a scowl

And all the while newborns

Who might be reborns cry,

Folding up into a ball

Learning to roll with it.

Earthy mothers try to remember

How it came to be

That the responsibility

For gathering fallen leaves

Was transferred

To the night wind

Which has always blown

Around in circles.

The depository of dreams

Is swamped with little lies and failures.

Nothing good ever came of waiting

Scouring the bottom

Of a dead pool

Brings only a few surviving petals

To the surface.

Remnants of better days

When the bright bloom of success

Was carried in little bouquets

Of dried flowers

Pinned beneath a dress

Onto a whalebone

As an evocation

To the spirit of goodwill.

Perfection is a pause

Before the last breath and goodbye,

When in one moment

Of divinity

All things exist in one place,

Before dissolving

Into nothing

Which is both impossible

And not.