So, Not Perfection

If it exists

Perfection, that is,

It is beyond our knowing.

My excuse,

This

For my manifold malapropos

Like drug addled decisions

They ooze up

To the fevered surface

Of my fevered surface

And lay eggs

Of enormous

Stench.

They cannot be un-laid;

Covered with a tarp

Perhaps?

No, the odor gives them away.

Why, oh why did I

Do or say that?

In the waste land

Of their aftermath

The destruction is horrific.

With silly putty and Gorilla tape

I rush to aid the victims

Hoping against hope

For repair and even resurrection.

Restitution?

Yet I know

This is a nuclear winter,

Mine own Chernobyl.

 

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