These could be the best days,
I wouldn’t know.
There are no signs,
Written across our tiny universe to tell.

Even if there were signs,
Would I believe them?
Our lives are doomed to imperfection.
There is nothing that we think could not be better.

There is no wind that fills a sail,
That could not be better from a different quarter.
There is no taste of a luscious orange plucked from a tree,
That we have decided could not be better.

There is no gentle evening perfumed breeze,
That caresses a cheek that could not smell better.
Because of our own imperfections,
We abhor perfection.

Things never last forever.
Things are never fully complete.
Things are never as we experience them.
But the perfection lies in things as there are.

Nothing was ever meant to be perfect.
But we can dream,
And in our dreams,
We can make everything intimately and entirely our own.