The International Bureau of Weights and Measures

Somewhere,
Far away,
On the edge of rainbow and pale horizon,
Where reasons to live and fake hopes arise,
Among the ideal measures, weights and heights,
Among the ideal voices and songs, there lies
The ideal Man
Together
With the ideal Woman.

Her ideal womb would have carried
His ideal child,
Had they not been a museum relic,
Had they not been somewhat angelic.
The ideal couple,
Frozen in time.

People of the world,
Scared,
Scarred,
With persistence of a brazen maniac,
Are trying to tailor their bodies,
Their souls,
Their wail
To this Procrustean bed.

But they fail,
They never fit.
The imperfect bodies stick out.
And those who were so beautiful
In their incredible imperfection
Are now cutting off pieces
Of their own
Flesh.

Their raw aching wounds,
Their bleeding limbs
Are somewhat close to the frame.
And yet,
In the pursuit of perfection and fame,
This is far,
The farthest from it
You can get.

Still they are trying,
Arranging pieces of their rotten selves
Into monsters,
Like that one of Frankenstein.
They want to look and to be as fine
As those non-living things
That have never seen light.

But those subtle details
That are out of sight
But sublime
Get lost
In the process
In time.