I am a fish,
caught in the deep, forgotten oceans,
trapped beneath waves
that never ask my name.

But my soul —
my soul is a bird of light,
drifting weightless
through skies no net can hold.

My body knows the walls of water,
but my heart remembers stars.
Even in this blue prison,
I am endless flight.

There is no prize to perfection,
No crown for its endless direction.
Only the stillness, cold and mute,
Of a dream that halts in its pursuit.

The edge of longing, sharp and thin,
Cuts deeper than the goal within.
For what is gained when all is won,
If the chase extinguishes the sun?

Perfection lies in things undone,
In breaths that falter, threads unspun.
For life is richer, raw, unplanned,
A fleeting touch, a trembling hand.

There is no need for flawless art,
But space to mend the human heart.
No prize awaits, no grand pursuit—
Only life’s quiet, imperfect truth.