Imperfection hurts the most —
Like a balisong slyly between the ribs
Glides light and sticks, as into lard,
A matted blade with no treacherous shine.
Make imperfect the rhyme
To match this meek unfortunate,
The mind’s misshape,
The faltering pitiful avant-garde.
It lingers and sprawls. Dripping resin
Out of its throat, a long-lived monster:
The darkest-corner fear of the esthete.
Dishonorably fate and nature so conduct
Schemes of human architecture — vile
Is this sudden hit below the belt
To the fleetingly enlightened artist.
Tactfully orchestrated; unmistakably felt.
Imperfection is a natural natural enemy.
Cry your dry tears over it’s name
Whispered by film, paint
And all reflective metals —
It showers and writhes in your doubts,
The hissing snake-brain of the balisong
Knowing you’ll never pull it out.
An esthete s pain
© Copyright: София Король, 2021
Свидетельство о публикации №121092703865
Свидетельство о публикации №121092703865
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