Truth is not proud, running
his calloused hands across the welt
of guilt, knowing good from evil,
deliverance from dependence on
temptation to sway the scales.

Truth is not innocent of
the burden of each deficit of decency,
quavering beneath every slight,
every blow, each evasion & economy of grace.

Truth is not garrulous, having
learned at last to distill his words
into a single, potent flavour,
intoxicating on the tongue;
disequilibriating.

Truth was never altogether
balanced, leaning heavily on
humanity, and a complex,
nuanced naivety.

Truth is not pretty,
but, ever the pointillist,
his brush has potential to create
out of havoc
something more beautiful.