I am the grandeur
of imperfection
the raw material
of your creation-

if I were perfection
me for granted you would take
and lock me up as a finished item
conveniently forsake-

let me be in humble existence
a rose-bud that awaits its time
to be held by your tender hands
in joy and bliss so sublime-

all that I'd supplicate
is to an ideal be allied
still not quite the perfection
content to be just close beside.