Plastic perfection

Would the perfect poem be like plastic, moldable by different minds into any shape? Would it be like a designer drug that renders you creative, brilliant, and capable, but without side-effects? It would be compelling and completely new, an intellectual marvel and an emotional catharsis. Upon consideration, it would reveal every dimension of living using metonymy, synecdoche, symbolism, and imagism. It would be an experience better than any real experience, only it would seem more real than the next omelet you eat. It wouldn’t just make you think the poet were a genius; it would convince you that you were a genius.