If perfection did exist, it is the shape of his lips
It is the worlds flowing from his fingertips
It is his absence then full eclipse
It is his compassion for hardships

If perfection were a thing, it is the way that he can sing
It is the poems that he can string
It is his darkness with a spring
It is his breath under my wing

If perfection were in my hand
My love he would command
He would be the promised land
And it would be where you stand

© Delia Ross. 2019