Yes, We Are Perfect

A villanelle about how elusive and nonexistent perfection can be, and what it can do to a person.

His flesh and her flesh in a volcanic dance
The rest of them, next in line obviously and aware, become a collective watcher;
Perfection, they cannot be next; her left to chance.

They only watched the now, the yellow fog distancing them; perchance
The girl was just a bit older, or had killed the diseased satyr---
His flesh and her flesh in a volcanic dance.

Do it this way, no that way! I did, I did! We did our fruitless prance.
Everything is calm, but it is never, ever over, and it never will be; I am my own hater.
Perfection, they cannot be next; her left to chance.

Nothing really bad ever happens due to his expert use of the whip against our backs and lance
Against the pustules, except I lost who I could’ve been in my life. Later
His flesh and her flesh in a volcanic dance.

It was a love and hate story of our generation’s history, a true romance.
The victor got to change the meaning, the purpose and we became “innocent” bystander---
Perfection, they cannot be next; her left to chance.

They floated in the fog, the young ones. I watched their self-induced trance, 
She wasn’t perfect, so of course they didn’t want to be her.
His flesh and her flesh in a volcanic dance.
Perfection, they cannot be next,; her left to chance.