The grid is perfect
in its infinite checkered pattern.

So is the cemetery
in its infinite expanse of evenly spaced tomb stones.

So is a crystal
that relentlessly repeats itself in every direction.

So is the whiteness
that is unbesmirched by any speck of dust.

So is the darkness
that is not violated by any ray of light.

Until something comes out of balance.

The grid skips a step.
The brightness fades.
The darkness recedes.
The wrinkle grows as it propagates.

One ray of light sets the wheels in motion
creating chaos and imbalance,
strife and celebration,
glory and tragedy.

Such is life.
The beauty.
The imperfection.