You know perfection

Is a man-made word

Because it is shallow.

Though its implications are potent,

No poetry projects from its reflection –

No light journeys and is lost among its depths, its concealed connotation –

No life breathes and breeds new life within its cavernous confines, perpetuating the entropy of its meaning;

It is empty.

It is manufactured,

It is mass-produced, packaged, and projected

Into every plagued pool shallow enough to support its pseudo- existence.

And we step in it.

It is impossible not to:

Every crack, crevice, and crater

Grasps at the chance to grow perfection

For this very reason.

Nature has a lot to teach us about ourselves.

Do we not regard her in her beauty, rather than in perfection?

A mangrove tree

Struggles in the sediments,

The sentiments,

Her afflicted environment has provided.

Yet her sodden boughs bow to the sun

and do not cry

for good fortune to dry her knotted burdens.

She reaches,

plows

into the grace of the deep,

that infinite abyss,

teeming with energy.

Her brilliance surfaces as she digs deeper into her own soul,

Veiled in a velvet void

Of the shadows of wavering rays.

In frail light the tumult of her roots is made plain.

In the oblivion of the deep,

However,

Her beauty bubbles in bottomless virginity.