perfect. A poem

He was a rebel


His mind ramshackle

He took a coin

Put it to good use

He lived like a recluse

He didn’t clean up

A past he gladly forgot

There were people who relied on him

He seemed unreliable

Yet he had a lot of heart

He had lived

Many years had passed

He was forgiven

Although he wasn’t

Always in our memories

Those memories

We left them behind

We couldn’t bear

Our own perfection

We couldn’t bear

Our clean table cloth

There was a small stain

We couldn’t live with

That is how it is

One spot too many

If it was blood

Which it nearly was

We would be undone

We would know

We had been perfect

All along

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s