Komorebi might be mundane
For a grass
But for humans a rare encounter
De mort imminente,

Perfect always a perception
Never a fact, they say,
Yet some find it in their habibi,
For others wabi sabi in different landscapes,

I sit on my bed cross-legged,
Wondering whether perfection,
A concoction of mind or heart,
Bereft of any logic I concluded,
It's like determining the worth,
Of any work of art...

Like most experiences of life,
Our delicate hearts often suffer,
The exploits of our miscreant mind,

Nature wears the colours of love,
Iridiscent inducing ineffable intimacy,
Looking for perfection an endeavour in futility,
Flaws also in the moon regarded as epitome of beauty...
© paradoxicalpenman