His name is Perfeccion,
And he has forever imprinted
Upon the canvas of mine mind
With such regality and ethereality
That such an impressive persona
Threatens to uproot all which hath come before him.
O, for he is but an intellectual being
Wrought of the copulation of another,
Yet still mine wishful heart
Desires to own
Such a lofty bird of hyacinth--
A flower budded which hath burst into bloom.
When I attempt to grasp him from the air,
Nothing but an ethereal feather
Slips through my grasp.
I assume that one hath been caught--
Held tightly in my palm--
Yet...
When my hands are opened,
There is naught.
At times, I wish that
Perhaps it were not so.
Yet, reality cannot grasp that which is ethereal.
His name is Perfeccion,
For surely he is exceedingly perfect.
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