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Dreams of Perfection 
by Tristram Tuna, December 1997

Along a disused byway, down a dusty corridor
I find a darkened chamber, with night for walls and floor.
It's filled with many statues, grey ghosts of bygone days,
A cache of all the women I've known in many ways.

If I should look upon one, then I can see her true.
It brings me joy to see her, old friend that I once knew.
As I recall her spirit, I feel the shackles freed,
Then memories flood through me - each name, each place, each deed.

I see a pair of arms, held high above the throng,
Remember how she danced before it all went wrong.
I see a young girl smiling, my childhood's sweetest friend,
Hair golden in the sunlight, long days that never end.

A lifetime full of memories, friends, lovers and the rest,
Forgotten for so long, each gave me of her best.
There are so many statues, who will I see and when?
They all deserve attention, if I'm this way again.

At the front and to one side a pedestal stands bare,
Although without a statue, by far the grandest there.
On it sits a young man, head hung, his face a mask,
Waiting, forever waiting, a lifetime at this task.

He lifts his head towards me, and then he lets it sink
As I question why he waits, and he takes a while to think.
He ponders, of these women, why none could make the grade
And why, with growing closeness, their auras seemed to fade.

He sought to find perfection, but knows it can't exist,
But now an equal partner's the thought he can't resist.
He looks at all his statues, knows why he felt at odds.
He loves their faults and virtues, wants humans now, not gods.

With painful clarity he sees the folly of his ways,
To seek a perfect idol to worship all his days.
His waiting now is over, illusions pierced at last.
He stands and leaves there with me, dreams of perfection passed.



We shall be delighted if you visit our sister site at Wickford and District Talking Newspaper for the the Blind and see what those dedicated charity workers are doing.


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