Paradox

Twisted minds excrete gilded words,

glitzy, glittering pyrite turds,

which seem so fine when first viewed,

but conceal the noxious and the crude.

Lost souls singing hellish psalms –

devoid of aid as a beggar’s palms –

offer false ideals and feet of clay,

less sustaining than a red sun’s rays.

Purveyors of misery and deceit,

empty boasts, tattered conceit,

perverted promises, aborted talent,

cowards masquerading as gallant,

their cunning phrases flow with ease

from turgid minds corrupt with disease.

But Immutable Neon Truths still glow

amid empty vows false as dicers’ oaths.

Nature’s enigmatic paradox shows,

fragrant roses from dung will grow.

© 5/26/2009 T. P. Woodfork

Webmaster: Thurman P. Woodfork

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