The fool relays but simple truths, or lies with little class. And few but fools will be convinced nor grant the claim to pass.

But greater the intelligence, so grander all the lies. Imbued with trust, we’re ignorant of truth’s incessant cries.

Privy fools who craft a blunder, tear their woven plans asunder, curse the heavens, blame the thunder, laugh behind the tears they conjure.

Thunderclaps, they whip and crack, mount their bolty steeds in packs, crash and canter, holler and hack, attack the steeple, kill the people, break their backs and slay the feeble, drench their skulls and make it lethal. Whip and crack, they burn in packs.

An altogether different type of alpha-male, free from the abuses that install false confidences, he sits and ponders and scouts his prey, ready to close his soft and selfless jaws around the pulsing artery that dances in their necks, lapping up their crimson hearts with a tongue that’s built for banter, leaving the plump and undeserving chest of a bolder kind heaving with wasted air, swallowing their prejudices through an unhinged jaw.

Watch now as he takes his leave, takes the girl, and takes your pride. Altogether different, and still what’s more, that dazzling beauty, she will be loved, bring him tea when he’s grey and old, adore and be adored.

Stir two spoons of sugar in youth, and death with taste quite bitter.

Sometimes, even on the brightest day, suspended like a pearly bubble, she glows, and beams her shiny smile; a distant glimpse of heaven.

Though seldom do we share the sky, I often, from behind the hills, steal a setting glance, and grin with rosy lips as I slip behind the brow.

And when morning comes, I stretch my golden fingers, reaching out to hug her. But her silver heart grows weary, and softly undeterred she sleeps, and dreams beneath my fire.

But sometimes, even when I burn the most, a kindly, cool complexion, suspended like a pearly bubble, wakes from sleep and kisses me, and orbits my reflection.