The Imperfectly Perfect Man


There stood the man, so lone quiet and greedy,
not to be mistaken with innocent, guilty or needy.

He spilt the tea for me, 
so carelessly, effortlessly free.

He cleared the pain of the wounded and the hearts of the depressed,
but nothing other than that nothing for the rest.

He removed sadness, 
as one removes dirt from a cloth.

His actions seemed so perfect, almost as if they were a mime.
But they turned out to be false, like a sour, green lime.

Reality seemed to fade away just as he approached.
He seemed to be more than life and death as if he was their coach.

He radiated contentment as if he knew nothing but glee.
He noticed disappointment but treated it as if it were a flea.

He rose and fell like the waves at sea 
and dose and dwell like the effortlessly spilling tea.


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