Atop an abyss at the culmination of personal progression,
Atop a downhill slope and ready to make the next jump,
Ready to make the next move,
The next leap of faith.
But before that I ask of one thing:

 

Smell that daisy again, really smell them,
Listen to the birds again, really listen even a mere chirp,
Taste the water even though you can’t really taste much,
I guess that’s not really the point.
Inhale that one very sight that morphs nothing into everything just like that.

 

If you are not satisfied by inadvertent nuance,
A dog wagging his tail when you come home,
The churning of water in a cistern,
A child’s very laugh,
Then perhaps, this one time, perfection is the deprivation of good.