THE PERFECT AMOUNT OF IMPERFECTION

The dark void, of the thick night's veil,

with the silver of scattered stars.

Will it's beauty, to us, ever appeal,

if the shining orbs are lined in bars.

Wondrous, varied colours, woven into the peacock's tail,

an epitome, of the wonders nature holds.

Would never be worthy of the least of hail,

if the feathers, were ironed into neat folds.

Vast, is the sky,

with cotton clouds woven into sapphire blue.

Will there be majesty in it, however high,

If it was of a uniform hue.

All of nature, spellbinding and diverse,

is not perfect in sight, smell or cry.

But this, is exactly why,

They are magical to the human eye.