The Facts

Tears feel best when covered in icing,

the frosted versions of truth,

when the mind is dipped in sugary stories

and sweetened to any bitterness.

 

We thrive on the diet of seasoned reality,

every morsel moment cleverly disguised

so its flavor is succulent and zesty,

never bland and lacking nutrition,

an ambrosia so luscious and appealing

easily sliding down the throat.

 

But when the cook is history’s chef

it isn’t garnished by something contrived,

will always reveal the tainted servings

of mankind’s mishaps and blunders,

so stupidity and ignorance bubble in the mix,

how it truly spoils the appetite.

 

For we want gourmet and dessert,

with a feel that honey

drips from mankind’s purposes,

slip so serenely into the bliss

where we live a banquet

and eat only the cuisine of delights.

 

However, the cookbooks of the heart

too often have recipes for disasters,

which scald the tongue

from their caustic consequences,

left with soured stomachs,

sadden dispositions and sorrowful regrets

for it reminds so constantly

our fingers are more gifted

at making creations, charred and not edible,

than those masterpieces

envisioned in the pictures we paint

about meals never actually served.