It is not a polished thing,
Until, perhaps, the end.
Instead it takes a lifetime,
Crashing on the shore,
To have the best of it brought out.
For this rude, basic thing,
Formed from the fires of ancient earth,
Is just a stone, rough, solid, and unformed,
Until life takes and breaks and smooths it.
Perfection is the sum of all we are,
The sum of every little thing,
That we experience in the walk.
Our joys and woes,
The thousand deaths we face,
Our failings and our secrets dark,
Our hopes, our fears,
All help us to that place perfect.
But it is only in that final breath,
That we can claim that we have lived.
For perfection, true perfection,
Is the will to make it to that final day,
And build a life unique to us.
It is not a polished thing,
But rather is ourselves,
Just as we are and how we will become.



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