The louder you yell, the less the truth
contained in words you speak.
Your furious face, all goad and base,
heaving up lies at your frenzied pace  
for people brave and free.  

Your bleeding tongue, grotesque, inane.
And somewhere in the drops,
tiny specks of shredded fact,
eaten, digested, circulated, spat
back at the black-toothed, awed, and cracked.

Groutless walls you build so high
with grimy bricks of fear.
But bricks or not, rash walls will rot, for  
Truth is simmered, sturdy, stout
It’s not the brick, it is the grout.
The sticking place of Truth survives
the bloodiest tongue screaming “hoax and lies”.