it is always within your province to create perfection as you know it

it is far too easy to decry the actions of others
the wringing of hands produces no music
brings no pleasure to the soul,
what blossoms can possibly be born of the grit-filled soil of derision?

looking the other way may quell your anxious and marauding mind
yet it is wise to choose carefully the mise en scene upon which your gaze may fall~
relegate your thoughts to the barren
and your cornucopia withers under the weight of the chimerical harvest,
contemplate ad nauseam the elevation of the ignorant
the lofting arrogance of the intemperate,
the sinking state of those who would seek to captivate you by virtue of their lack of same,
by day’s end your hands will turn up empty
blistered with grasping,
your spirit will splash about the mud
and you will miss the sweet breath of the brook
as it pines to refresh your desiccated soul

rampant pandemonium is not a final destination
lest you choose to erect these battered walls and dwell within
lest you choose the bones of the attenuated life
lest you choose to peer into the darkness
and disregard the glories so oft masked in shadow

it is always within your province to create perfection as you know it to be
you need not gild the lily nor wallow in rarefied selection ~
life lines the corridors patiently, awaiting your inspired engagement,
those who hoist high the banner of magical thinking
may view themselves as warriors for the empire of the practical
yet you are beholden neither to their twisted version of magic’s potent truth
nor to the fragile beauty of finely-wrought reason

it is always within your province to create perfection as you know it ~
the key is lodged in your heart
and aches to be set free