The tapestry is stained, the psyche is flawed.
Nature is jagged, the angels have had a fall.
The beauty looks rough in the morning, the person in flesh doesn't quite match the photo.
The vegetables are nibbled by insects, the mind forgets what was formerly known.
The apple is dappled and bruised, the stitching on the shirt is frayed.
The photos are faded, the shop-keeper doesn't give the right change.
The majesty has a shadow, the plot seems to continually digress.
The quality is sullied, the mechanics don't quite make the test.
The skin is marked by blemishes, the hair is flecked with grey.
The furniture is chipped, the weather rarely gives us a cloudless day.
Reality is imperfection, each others' foibles we must continually forgive.
Nothing quite makes 'the grade' so better to get on with it and just live.