Imperfect Beings

The great sculptor of life,

With his hands and a knife,

Carved many a piece of art,

That could blow any heart.

Then he set his heart on a being,

A masterpiece, thought he, it would be becoming,

A being absolutely perfect,

Each step of its making, he did carefully inspect.

With meat and bone and soul,

His skills were on a roll.

He carved out the specimen with ace,

Keeping a constant pace.

The first of its kind was made.

Disappointed was he with his trade.

For amiss in it was something,

He wanted a perfect being.

So he gave a second try,

And in it too there was something wry.

Alas! He wouldn't think of giving up.

And the number of specimens went up.

Before adding soul to it,

He would forget to add something to it.

Sometimes Grace, sometimes wit,

At times love and at times they were unfit.

Many an imperfect race

Now survive in a maze.

A streak of cruelty in them is found

Filled in their hearts are ambitions unbound.

Stupidity runs in some veins,

In some hands are dishonesty's stains.

The outcome atrocious,

Being destroyed are things gracious,

Confusion chaos and pain

Put the whole world in a state of disdain,

The master sculptor in an attempt for a perfect being

Ended up with many an imperfect being.