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.