Perfection, oh 'tis not a word of such (Sonnet)
Perfection, oh 'tis not a word of such
Unless thy heart or sight declares 'tis so.
Such truth renowned never amounts to much,
Nor tongues as high as scrapers down below.
See, even nightingales disgorge at times;
Their waves rebel against thy 'customed norm,
Or soaring minds despised for angry chimes
For wild's acceptance, the force to reform.
Although it is, and true enough, 'tis said,
Beneath thy dust, revelation waits
Until its rightful ticking to be shed
It flaunts not, but from dullness separates.
Thus, ev'ry being need not suffer this,
The heat of fists which push away thy bliss.