**The Tiny Box of Perfection**

The tiny box of perfection, 

Where the control freaks so strive, 

Is really merely an illusion,  

A grandiose, sunken dive.  

For in this perfectly imperfect world,  

Nothing is perfect— especially people,  

Temporal and transient blips in time.  

A wink, a flash—  

You're here one day,  

And gone the next,  

Lost in the woes and throes of borrowed time.  

Dust to dust;

Nothing remains, 

But faint residues of a life once lived 

In collection.

Walls of trophies—

Sinful and narcissistic upon reflection.

Proof of siege to those poor souls

Perfected.

In its wake, 

Hollowed out of shallowness,

A pompous, idolatrous ode 

To a whine of absolute “perfection”.

R.I.P. hypocrites, 

Without sacred rites,

Buried unconsecrated

For crimes against the holy desecrated.

What is told in the obituaries 

And carved on tombstones of those perfect lives?

That which gives life meaning

Was missing to them while alive.

Because it was all stashed away, 

Hidden away in the tiny box of perfection.