my fingers stretch toward the mark
never to be, perfection
but they itch for it anyway
over and over again they push
not realizing the work of art
encompassed within themselves
unaware of the challenges conquered along the way
the burden of time, weighing down on their joints
may stagnate, but will never cease
the journey
ironically guided by blind ambition
by the hope that somewhere beyond their reach
the promise of perfection exists

Photo provided by: unsplash-logoNadine Shaabana