On Perfection

You can keep your pebble, your river worn stone

that sits smooth and warm in the palm of your hand.

I shall scour the shore; look for something jagged,
something unique and riddled with flaws.

I want facets and faces, a myriad of places
that catch at my fingers; an impression that lingers.

I want light and dark, something edgy and sharp
that leaves its mark long after it abandons.

I want peaks and canyons, swoops and dives,
river rapids and white knuckle rides.

So you can keep your pebble, your river worn stone
that sits smooth and warm in the palm of your hand.

I’ll search for my rock, my dirty diamond;
if its perfection you covet you can have it alone.


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