A poem about life and interpretation.

Perfection.

It is something we subconsciously strive for; part of the human condition you could say.
The more I think about this word, the more I realise that it is no more than an idea,
A collection of traits summed as as the ideal human individual


Perfection.

It doesn't exist; perhaps it never has,
So why do we long for such a thing?
Is it hard-wired into our DNA, that we should stamp out anything which deviates from this rule?


Perfection.

It has many forms, from the wonder of a newborn babe to the love of our life who stops our heart.
It is all around us, in every possible form.
It is the trees we glimpse and the air we breathe.


Perfection.

Many years from now, what will you be?
Just another line for the human population to cross,
Or an ideal that we will still try to uphold, pushing many to the brink of madness while in pursuit.


Perfection,

It is all and it is each of us.
We have the power to choose what perfection means to us.
For me, it is you.