INSECURITY

When a hollow boulder, works his vibrant tongue,

Determining that all measure of things are wrong,

We are not favored by his rant and rave,

Thus, sympathize with all the things he craves.

That fault lives in the crevices of all our hearts,

Deceives not truth that truth from it departs,

Yet, what delight is shared by constant scorn,

Is sadder joy from miseries tutors born,

Which favors thoughts that see a future dim,

Lest all who think are critics just like him.

Contradictory words to hide unsteady feet,

Distort not fact that time proves by repeat,

For to praise the freedom that his words demean,

Is as an insecure golfer on a perfect green

©22 May 03 Colin F. Jones