I seek for truth. I seek for creation. But in the meantime, I abuse the habit of perfection. Round blue eyes, rough fingers, pigmy size body.

I seek for truth.
I seek for creation.

But in the meantime,
I abuse the habit of perfection.

Round blue eyes,
rough fingers,
pigmy size body.

Animal?
Yes!

Stubby fingers
tap, pound, thrum
against the desk.

I wait for truth.
I wait for creation.

Yet, in the meantime
I am discovered daydreaming

All mountains
erupt with lava
and flying rocks.

Stop!
Remember perfection.

Protruding mouth
conceals an under bite
and crooked teeth.

I yearn for truth.
I yearn for creation.

A mystery may be hidden,
but it is controlled through practice.

Lights,
large pictures,
lipstick.

Wait!
Maybe I’m onto something.

One square ear
tilts toward
the heart.

I listen for truth.
I listen for creation.

Perfection ceases.
Perfection allows mistakes.

Echo,
Dripping sound,
low voices.

LISTEN!
Listen or the sound will fade.

All is quiet,
calm,
hushed.

“Never wear white shoes.
They don’t leave marks.”

© S. Ann Comte, 11 February 2014