Perfectionist Painter

He thought the work complete,
But imperfect.
He daubed on more oils,
Swirls of reds and greys.
His paintbrush traced delicate lines
In viscous tar.
Each stroke would be the last,
He vowed ,
A final touch
To make the completed picture perfect;
And yet perfection
Did not come once sought.
Standing back,
He sighed
As he realised,
These last perfecting strokes
Had tainted his painting;
No longer complete
And far from perfect.
He must learn
That sometimes
Things are good enough

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2 Responses to Perfectionist Painter

  1. jfb57 says:

    This is a fabulous ‘picture’ of how we can just be too demanding of life xx


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