he walks the dusty dirt road,

skipping stones in the stream,

singing songs to the sky,

painting a picture of perfection

for the untrained eye.

 

but as the stream curves closer to the dusty dirt road

his picture morphs and twists on her glittering surface

and a snarling monster settles in his place,

in the reflection on the water.

 

reflection on the water,

the ugly truth of a beautiful lie.

 

he rejects whole races,

only able to see in black and white

but never gray;

and, certainly, he is blind to the beauty of a rainbow—

he couldn't love his daughter

for her love was for a girl;

he swears my love is a sin

yet thinks himself the better for preaching his hatred

on the basis of a book not everyone believes in,

but those who do not are the subjects of his hatred as well.

(don't worry, at least

he discriminates

indiscriminately.)

 

but he wears a smile and walks with a swagger to his supposedly superior step;

the reflection on the water

can't

possibly

matter.

 

the lie

is better than

the truth,

always,

but it will

always

be only

a lie.