nothing crooked
nothing at all
a white page turned to a thousand no different
follie’s brush paint in every color but true
and truth lies with the brightest of color
believable and pretty
and dies
nothing crooked
nothing at all
Isn’t it only the indulgent man who can disdain himself enough to muster the hatred to look for the ugliness inside him—some men even with a grin and gallows humor?
The Prodigal