By: Dennis Rothwell

You could be a picture
Of gleaming perfection.
Indeed, an orchestra,
Of human without sin.
The world at your whims,
Subject to your knees,
Yet you ask nothing of them,
For every person sees,
That you are perfect.

                                                              Until You make a MistAke
   and again
                           AND AGAIN
Until evErythinG falls Apart,
                                                   Even your RHyme