~Blind Perfect~

Touch him where he's
rusted,
his decay will stain
your fingers;
eyes so blue as
summer,
in naked bone
yet linger.
And sure he's
pretty. . .

But can he
sing?

And sure he's
perfect. . .

But does he
feel,
anything?

Can one dead love,
can death desire?
Can winter taste,
or feel the fire?
Does passion touch,
or does it flee. . .

He's perfect
but
he cannot see.

Everybody loves
him,
but he feels no
affection;
try to know his
mysteries,
you may catch his
infection.
Oh he's so
precious. . .

but is he worth
the price?

He seems so
heartless. . .

or is it simply
made of
ice?

Can a sculpture feel,
can a painting speak?
Do angels find
we humans weak?
Is this all he
can ever be. . .

He's perfect
but
he cannot see.

(How far can
one man reach,
how much can
one boy take--
will he leave
his silence,
oh when will
his mask
break?

And if
someone touches
him
then will he
even feel?
Oh if you
close your eyes
then will he
still
be real?)

Pain the
lifelong lesson,
and he's his
own best teacher.
Flawless the
religion,
he is the
single preacher.
Praise him
perfect. . .

And you may see
his smile.

But hold
a mirror up and

you'll be met
with cold
denial.

Can killers live,
could hatred love?
Do his eyes ever
turn above?
Or is this his idea
of 'free'. . .

He's perfect
but--

What never lives
can never die,
he has wings
but cannot fly.
Is there a heart
to reach his mind;
oh how could
Perfect
be so blind?

Empty voice,
empty eyes.
The picture's perfect
but it lies:
the cure is really
his disease. . .

His charm is all
in that disease. . .

He's perfect
and

he'll never see.




~(c) The Mad Poet (A.K. LaBelle) 12/8/02