How clueless he is,this true man of perfection,
for he is known as the man lost of his perception,
How mislead he has become in his perfection,
for he has lost the ultimate advantage;
The ideal advantage is suited to consume reason,
and yet,remains as the very source of logic.
He pounds at the door of knowledge,
knowing fully well that none would answer,
and the doors are locked from the inside,
but over there,the windows are left open,and,
He can now only feel like a thief.
Such is the nature of that perfection,
that deceit with grace,and yet a man still.
For his eyes,ears and that rapid devils tongue,
too quick to break the silence,
for not so long ago,these once primates knew
of a silence,that of a different kind,
one that fully understands the powers of uncertainty,
one that knows fear from the heavy gloat of hungry death,
one that knows the advantage from perfection,
without the advantage,we are helpless,
simply just the mindless eyes of dark corridors,
for such a being of selfish decision,
as the true poet must be
to discover his own advantage over the charming muse.
Now,let us return to the ideal of perfect man,
But oh!where has he fled?
But over there,i see him fleeing across the horizon,
holding his perfect face in the light of shame.