They are the crack in polished stone,
The note that trembles, not quite a tone,
They stumble where the road is clear,
Yet find new paths when none appear!

Their edges fray, their colours blur,
A patchwork soul of all they were,
Not flawless, yet in every scar,
A map of where their triumphs are!

Perfection’s mask is sharp and thin,
It hides the life that breathes within,
But they — untamed, unfinished and free,
Are all the chaos they are meant to be!

So, let the world call them askew,
They wear their flaws like morning dew,
For in each fault, a truth is spun,
They are imperfect — perfectly one!