Without Flaw

A man without flaw, like the petal of a flower in bud, as never bloomed in all its days. And there is no beauty in this, like the silence of a taut watch among the soldiers at the front, ready for battle. The blood without pulse, like dentures resting in an open glass. Neither victory nor defeat, flat — a line. Only the flawed man is beautiful like a flower in full bloom, his life in the hands of his own making, always knowing that he will not return. Still the heart beats and the teeth grind, defeat after defeat, and he is a man— a victory without flaw.