The Blithedale Betrayal

You Blithedale Utopians, why couldn't you see,
A world that is perfect never can be?
It took you a while, but at long last you learnt,
Reality struck hard; it scalded; it burnt.
Perfection is moulded by its own shadow of lies,
Out of its throat imperfection does rise.
We only know joy because we have suffered so great,
Love only exists as we have been stung so by hate.
The world keeps on turning, spinning so fast,
No feeling, no bleeding, no meaning can last.
Package perfection, shut out its Hyde,
Though what is Jeckyl with no evil side?
Those moments of pleasure, those dreams that come true,
Are they worth the inevitable pit of residue?
High on that drug, whirling blissfully around,
Then that glut in the gut as you come down to the ground.
Incompleteness, hollowness, what you wish can never be,
Perfection's held tight by the might of uncertainty.

by Katy Fulker

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