Perfection is the blackest magic
Robbing the sky of its sun
It steals the joy of every room
A devil made of poisons
That seep into your very bones
Until you have become
A ghastly shade
Always on the drive, the move, the next
Jagged edge towards divine
Perfection whispers lies
It is the “almost” in every achievement
And the triumph
That can never be celebrated
It casts us as imposters
And relegates us
To the villains of our own stories
Until the perfectionist
Stands shattered to pieces
Forever cast
Into a half-life gloom
Unable to reach the light – Caroline A. Slee