we are all incomplete,
unfinished masterpieces,
no matter our years;
there is no perfection here,
instead, the thread of an idea
of what might be
has evolved into this work -
this life -
through the years,
it only reaches its conclusion
in death
where many flaws are forgotten
as we are raised upon a pedestal
we'd never thought to climb,
only to be forgotten
in a short passage of time;
so it goes
with great art
