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~ 1 ~
'Tis not your failings which doth prompt my scorn,
More oft it is your achievements that doth warn,
Of more eager trespass in my sacred fields,
Wherein so costly sown I will not yield.
Bitterness leaves a measure of its strife,
Lingering in the blunt edges of a knife,
That though long sheathed tis sharply pointed still,
Though to pierce soft flesh is not the owners will.
Then time with tolerance should in wisdom pass,
For sometimes then 'tis offered the sacred grass,
To share in trust that fear might soon abate,
That ghosts may enter through the open gate.
For where we can't observe another's acts,
'Tis oft unclear what are the real facts.
~ 2 ~
Judge me then by your own chosen rules,
Barren as they are in the hearts of fools,
And paint me as your falser brush doth blot,
For by my truth I will for sure be shot.
Is not the lie of he who holds the power,
More truthful than my truth that I must cower,
Admitting that my honesty is diseased,
Thus making those who favour him so pleased.
Only a fool would lose his life for this,
Standing on principle the liar's truth resist,
For in the end there cometh that great hour,
Which we are judged by the greatest power,
That I'll be seen not as a liar named,
But as a man of truth by a liar shamed.
~ 3 ~
The pallid reason is as would a foe,
Lie for a friend his loyalty to show,
Loses substance devouring its own cause,
For never did a lie bring friends applause.
Two lies make one; thus are larger seen,
More absent becomes the empty space between,
And as the mountain grows it rumbles thus,
First to crack thus crumpling into dust,
Losing all the essence of its fire,
For they are but ashes the statements of the liar.
Defend me not if it requires a lie,
For you fire the bullet from which I will die...
And what we thought was friendship will abate,
And lose the trust required to guard the gate.
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