Yes I am less than perfect,

those defects are displayed,

the fault of inner grieving;

disfigurement engraved.
But Soul has no deformity,

and ego may be bruised,

as Self repairs the damage

from years of heavy use.
‘Erect,’ the angels whispered,

stand tall, upright and straight,

hold to your inner knowing,

let no-one fabricate.
There could be no dishonour,

in being who I was,

constructed in experience;

assembled in full trust.
Unique in all time made me,

with foibles, flaws and vice,

lopsided in so many ways,

askew, awry, not nice.
And yet in all the ruins,

of who I might have been,

was someone truly beautiful;

things are not what they seem.

For in the dregs and dross,

the blights and scars alike,

stains and smears of being,

we shine as heart’s delight.
There can be nothing perfect,

time renders us reduced,

and in the wounds of living,

we find our deepest truths.


About rosross

Editor, writer, poet.
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