A cobweb hung in quiet grace,
Up in that corner, a subtle trace.
Her friend looked up with dismayed eyes—
But she just smiled, unbothered, wise.

 

“I thought it might be hanging there,
But truly so, I don’t much care.”
No guilt, no fuss, no veiled defense—
Just calm in what made perfect sense.

 

Her friend then asked, “Would you mind if I…?”

“Go right ahead, happy to comply.”
She wouldn’t clean just to appease,
And let her friend do as she please.

 

Get a life, don’t chase the shine,
If joy’s not there, then why the grind?
Perfection robs more than it gives,
It’s not how presence truly lives.

 

Some scrub and shine, then scrub some more,
And never ask what all it’s for.
A spotless floor won’t hold your hand,
Nor make your soul feel truly grand.

 

He never washed his face with soap,
Just water’s flow, he was no dope.
No daily purge of nature’s oils—
No war with dust, no needless toils.

 

Get a life, don’t chase the shine,
If joy’s not there, then why the grind?
Perfection robs more than it gives,
It’s not how presence truly lives.

 

We act as if a smudge defines
The worth of life in rigid lines.
But maybe grace is letting be—
A cobweb, a spider’s apogee.

 

Get a life, don’t chase the shine,
If joy’s not there, then why the grind?
Perfection robs more than it gives,
It’s not how presence truly lives.