Mar 26, 2013

The Perfectionist

Written by Bruce Bond

Read by M.E. Hope

When Plato lay sick beside a window
overlooking the hush of the Aegean,
he thought, somewhere lies a great shadow
to end all shadows, a paradigm of ruin
as the one dead thing that is no thing
in particular, that is the face below
a face, the bone-white light inside the living.
And it seemed like medicine, to know
there is inside each terror a name for terror,
inside each cough a ghost, a principle.
What he would not give for a drop of water.
And a beautiful boy appeared, a disciple,
who cradled his head and held the cup just near
enough. Just as he liked it. So cold, so cruel.

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