Angel wings blotched with ink Pluck the feathers, let them sink Down the depths of fleeting pleasure What is good? Subjective measure. Whitest linen hemmed with gold Lined with rubies, red and bold Dropped in mud, in realm of swine, Even Lamb with sinners dined. You who claim to be righteous Free from blame, always cautious To never break a moral code But fail to love and the self erode. Take the time to introspect To empathize and project A light for those who’ve lost their way, For in their shoes you walked for days. Soles wore thin, where to begin? Strive to make sorrow grin.