Truth has no bee-line,

Freedom comes in no prepaid subscription

See how the pragmatists, the politicians, kowtow

To their seasons

And as saith The Preacher, naming Time and Chance,

They happeneth to all

Truth is no proper word for bandying

Nor Freedom rallying call, excepting making dinners

Loaded with meats and sundry bittersweets

Of all varieties

For frauds to fall upon.

But are ardent mordant governors, and wards

Of wandered appetites

The gracious checks and balances, the straighteners

Of paths

Freedom and Truth delinquent rake the worldly-wise

Illuminating show the road to persons of The Lord

Who'd do His sovereign will.

They are no currencies; nor trading stations; they

Are not correct

For use as counters in a game of wagerings and debts

Their hours arrive and come alive, when it’s not

Foreseen

And even so, they never die; are sturdy evergreens

Our use of Truth and Freedom reasons with our

Most loved errors

By turns afflict us roughly, when we’re too much

Cognoscenti

They drag us like old felons sore through thorny hedgerows,

Ditches, of ‘slings and arrows’

There’s some of us protest; others confess, but all

Are shaken, stirred,

Out, up, by

Then dried-out, ironed, folded, neatly made

Ready for wear

The raiment of The Kingdom, held in presses

Left to air.

So no such thing in being as a single block

Of Truth

As Truth pans out, a puzzle, in this glum

Unseemly world

And fluid Freedom hereabouts does not come

Self-contained

Both are the running trainers gifted of Love’s Paraclete

To wear, to leap the hurdles

And pace distances, the yards

And face the tape exhausted of beloved

Infirm contrarieties

This race against oneself knocks out the grunts

Of pig-iron

Goes sending us through the mill like silly

Playground schoolchildren

Making a thumb at all our sleazy self-concessions

Taking the plunge to drown us to call wealth

Our fool possessions

Raking us through our wills, it weeds us, feeds us

New nutritions

A water-wine translation,

At last to a self-admission of those rude coveted

Crimes

Of recreant times

Freedom and Truth doeth all these things, and under Heaven

The serving proof of The Gracious Lord is in the pudding