Progression’s Climb to Perfection

Cumulonimbus of cleansing,

now raindrops on my windshield,

coming from that aura of darkness

where kept secrets mingle amidst clouded ceilings,

now pleading the means of clarity and vision

as wipers destroy your story,

banish your escaped dreams,

exile you to dust and weed encrusted culvert pasts.

For you

and your legion of light's refraction,

perfection cedes to worldly maintenance,

purging Nature's cyclic destiny,

removing man's residual dust motes of consumption.

When we have seen you transporting from above,

before finding gravity's inevitable embrace,

the eyes of our consciousness find questions with answers,

but asunder goes vision

as imposed arcs of compulsive change wipe clean

your message from calendars never old.

Occasionally

Like your periodic cleansing of existence,

we too address imperfections

with tissue drenched tears

of melancholy,

wishing that,

getting this.

Perhaps we fail to realize

what the purity within accepts,

that even as life's coiled limbs shake,

our inner child lingers not

on its disruption,

its anger,

its sorrow,

its imperfection,

but its tenacity.

Allowing flaws to be,

encourages the in-progress of learning for just as day's light

can only be understood by knowing darkness.

So too perfect knows not of itself without imperfection's chorus

Perhaps

Innocence too is but a raindrop becoming something today

it never programmed from yesterday,

even as we forever attempt to transcend

the meandering tributaries separated by the mind's windows,

certain lessons are destined to never become clear.

Perhaps

Our existence knows only what is the moment

before the next,

compelled by Mach speed to change,

forever slandering Nature's droplets perfect,

to alter,

shun aside,

and finally remove with arrogant ignorance.

A wise man once said we are eyes of the infinite

designed to never cease squinting,

even as our capricious arc of power

attempts to make dominant the vision of conquest.

And yes

Perhaps

Windows into life's essence

know clarity is sometimes heard,

not seen.

Felt,

but not touched.

Such might be progression seeking perfection

of this infinitesimal life we label…

Humankind.