To a Once-Perfect Character

I erase all but the perfect few
To Technicolor tempers once consuming my page:
I’m glad I don’t remember you.

Silhouettes etched, every rainbow hue,
My illegible nomads exit left of the stage—
I erase all but the perfect few.

Author’s lost purpose tilts appeals askew,
Prostrate imperfections wipe clean with rage—
I’m glad I don’t remember you.

Your written life I misconstrued,
And ignored your pleas for unbounded age—
I erase all but the perfect few.

I colored yellow to replace your blue,
A happy release from white paper cage—
I’m glad I don’t remember you.

I rewrote before you grew
As only the acceptable survive editing’s outrage.
I erase all but the perfect few,
And I’m glad I don’t remember you.