Inefficient imperfections. . .
Missions impossible:
should you chance to choose accept them,
perform some clean
but yet not mean
dissections. . .

The tasks cannot be done
for, thus to cutcau
you cannot just
the single thing
which you feel sure
you do not love,
of which you disapprove. . .

For there are other beings,
other parts
which together with each other
in social circles move
where they play in complimentary ways
and gain from
mutual and beneficial touch,

To touch one
means you will the others
strain or hurt or kill,
in ways we still cannot explain. . .

And thus,
you cannot single out
the ones you deem the nasty ones,
and just poison or extract them
at your will,

for you’ll affect
the lot of them
with any of the crude
and very fancy tools you’ve got.

So, don’t go playing
with your poison kits
or knife,
without due gravity
and prayer and love and thought,
and due consideration
of whether
indeed there’s such thing as
or present case
of imperfection. . .

And, if there is,
if changing it
is worth the likely
associated mangulation
and systemic perturbation,

or whether you’ve got other options
besides the knife or chemicals
skull-cross-bone symbols on the labels,

to pause,
for those supposed imperfections
to be grateful,

and for the contemplation
and the opportunity
to create and meditate
and get insightful,
despite the unhappiness
which weighs you down,
or the tangled, thick and thorny brush
in which you’re sure
those imperfections have you caught. . .

the very imperfections
you’ve been given
may, in the end,
still bless you well,
even while
they seem foul things
you never ever
would have
asked for
nor have bought.

This entry was posted in Poetic Musing (Longer Poems), Poetry and tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , . Bookmark the permalink.

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