More Perfect

“In order to form a more perfect.”
Finding little fault in where we are,
For the writers sat atop
With me as their atop sitting heir.

For my shoulders have not borne
The imperfections of “perfect,”
Which lay between the lines
Of who are “the people.”

As many labored to give
The “general welfare” I have,
But enjoyed little themselves
As “more perfect” sat smugly satisfied.

But my voice is in those words.
For in their seats,
I could have sat.
So my eyes should watch my tongue.

And perhaps my silence not my speech
Can move us past “more perfect.”
So the ever present voices who call “imperfect”
Might be heard not mine.