Fictional Perfection

All of you are scared of something,
no matter how you try to hide.
All hail Death, the one true healer -
uncover the wounds inside!
Through addiction and deception
imperfections still shine through;
the one who'd offer the balm of love
cozens, or doesn't know you.
None is perfect, none is worthy -
only figments of our minds,
in skin-tights or shining armor,
summoned as the tale unwinds -
for "perfect" is mere idle fiction,
Death's image in living brains,
where the forebears are laundered clean
of their once-born flaws and stains.
Strength is, thus, to see your weakness,
and look your foes in the eye -
and forgive the ones who call you "friend"
when they reveal it a lie.
As long as there's word and concept,
as long as there's willful deed,
there'll be shades of ill-bred intent,
multiplicity of creed -
but worry not, quiet will come,
and a tale might bear your name,
where only blood flows and not tears,
where greatness outshines the shame.