We seem to be confused

About what good is

It's not of heart

It's not of soul

It's of the mind

Regardless of what man may desire

It's in actions that goodness we find

sometimes poetry pours
my lips, fertile fields of blushing blooms
ink drips
an overflowing well of cold truth

nighttime rushes
and those same veins, tapped
speak a foreign tongue

devils play trouble
and the clock ticks
pointed truths pull at the shades
poetry turns to something else