I’m Perfect Or Imperfect Poem by Jonathan ROBIN

'I'm perfect! ' Upon resurrection
imperfect is found as insight
assesses syllabic selection,
grin mocks spin's locks, sin swings left, right?

If false is truth’s mirrored reflection,
if life and death spin/share same coin,
then what could be the point of perfection
when opposites ever conjoin?

If Future-Past's windfall convection
blows present to Present present,
why should eye, inspecting complexion,
chance challenges ever resent?

From Destiny there’s no protection
the game must play out over time,
while each Cause/Effect intersection
is figleaf or figment for rhyme
as if ripple's reviewed for inspection
expanding, wave-banding to landing,
the moment's selection detection
depends on direction outstanding
which itself – due to sound wave inflexion –
unlike light, cannot echo for aye!
There is no promised land, no election
to heaven or hell for the “I”.

All stays subject to frequent correction,
perfectible possible seems
evolution solution connection
between could, should, would chain of vain dreams.

If far, near, acceptance, rejection,
depend on criteria judgemental
then what is the point of invection
when sin_win's still coin of grudge mental?

Time adds to each serpentine section
which slithers, then withers or cheats,
recycling its heartbeat collection
as Time takes from time it deaf_eats.

So though some prefer circumspection,
while others time out with mimed flourish,
what remains when Death conquers dejection?
what's unburned worms or maggots must nourish.

Perfection seems state_mental lection
derived from desires which aspire
to acquire self-contentment, direction
some require to save soul from hell-fire.

Thus who turns to deep introspection
and who fame’s mirage ladder would climb
alike are condemned – misconception -
while “afterwards” who cares a dime?

If truth springs from falsehood’s def[l]ection,
if life from death none may dis-join,
each a link in Fate’s chain is, projection
which spirals from loin to Sir loin.