Perfection Poem by Alfred Barna

Don't stare
Your eyes I cannot bare
You are above reproach
I am the miscreant in the mud
You are holy
I deserve the crevice filled with crud
Don't laugh
Your humor mocks my worthless and mundane
You see me
But cannot seem to remember my name
My only joy is I am the darkness and cover
The blatant fool, and the heart-torn lover
Against my blackness in which I pay my fine
I am the backdrop so your stars can shine