Maybe it was the ricketyion of the night. Maybe the sourness of glimmer. The sweet placid night Serene after the filthy stares. Imperfection. Tenderness swells through my veins. prosperous unspoken touch, Fingers trickling through my skin. Without anxiety for a reason, This unspoilt is. We mediocre are. Ultimate comfort in a question-less moment. The cold fallible night Warms my heart. Inexplicable night. To explain would be to rush. Sense is do Through the dark look And sweet lips Of imperfection. On this night, Calendars do non wait with watchful eyes, Encouraging movement. They lowlifenot control moment into minute. The ult is an illusion. God, wherefore degrade us of perfection? For its thoughts lie in spite of appearance my heart Its breath come out upon my skin Its sound lay within my ears. Though my eyes whitethorn close, though my eyes may open The same sight remain liken Manifested thoughts only prove true. To those who see imperfection in this; o nly see imperfect eyes. Perfection is possible. Perfection is you.
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