Perfected the art of deceiving myself
And learned the pure form of acting a fool,
I breathe in and out the filthiest air
While I blithely and blindly ignore the first rule.
Ah, but perfection cannot be attained.
Ah, how it jeers from the sidelines, un-reached.
Its mysterious ways entice and enfold
In a manner so distant, cold, and un-breached.
Purely the heart longs for whiteness like snow;
Unblemished, achieved by one's own strength and choice.
But the soul flounders round in the sewage of self,
Hands tied, indignation a small, plaintive voice.
Perfected: my slav'ry to sorrow and fear.
Pure: my reliance on God, holy, just.
He is the unblemished lamb, without sin.
Perfected in Him is this flesh made of dust.
Holy; holy: the soul is ashamed
In the presence of Perfect. Not good enough.
I've perfected the art of striving in vain,
And not the submission to unselfish love.
The process of purity burns on the soul
While the Perfect One stands between me and the Pure.
He is my purity, I am the lost,
The perfectionist learning to trust in the cure.
postscript
Being a perfectionist is terrible, because the flesh is so, so weak. But that's why we're not supposed to be perfect on our own.