Who Wants To Be In Heaven?

I could make the poem perfect,
but why would I want to?
Would imperfect beings listen to a perfect anything?
Can such a thing exist on this plane and be noticed?
No. I speak of Imperfections. Of Fallibility.
Those are the things that speak to the soul!
This world is colored by its flaws,
yet how desperately we try to erase them,
when all else would merely be white.
And who could see a thing in that?

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