I was not made to be perfect.
I was made flawed, for that moment
when I discover perfection despite myself –
because I willed it with an earnest heart.
The beauty of the rose emerges from soil,
and the finest spring day, after winter’s toil;
A reed is cracked, that the pen’s ink may flow,
as a lover’s mind is broken, for the heart to know.
I was made flawed, for that moment
when I discover perfection despite myself –
because I willed it with an earnest heart.
The beauty of the rose emerges from soil,
and the finest spring day, after winter’s toil;
A reed is cracked, that the pen’s ink may flow,
as a lover’s mind is broken, for the heart to know.