Sludgy rancor lines The bottom of the crucible Wherein tongue lies bridled, Hand idled, Strength forged.
Roads are the city’s veins, And we, commuting corpuscles, Coursing through them, Keeping the city alive.
Time gasps at the mention of war, She grasps her old head, bracing for Another filthy dance of horror.
I’ve walked this road for long, but now I don’t know what to do When on the way I find my path Diverging into two: One filled with thorn and bramble bush, The other barren, dusty; The former floral, beautiful, The latter grim and fusty; Now neither path is beaten yet For both are solely mine, And I can’t turn around to stem The forward rush of time; I see the paths join up ahead, But first I must declare Which one will be the one I tread In order to get there; I take my time and think about The purpose of my quest, And find that neither path can be A place for me to rest. And thus I choose the dusty path And let the bramble be: The lesser of two troubles is The better choice for me. There’s more I have to see. Inspired by the prophetic exhortation to always choose the lesser of two evils.
The featherbrained Pasha of Ghaali Adopted a parrot named Polly. He taught her times tables and hundreds of fables Until in a moment of unguarded folly, She flew through the stables in manner so jolly And squawked of her hate for the Pasha of Ghaali. It was the last thing that she said, The next day, poor Polly was dead.
They say: the pangs of hunger come with madness, Excessive mirthfulness with gluttony, While love eternal finds a guest in sadness Begotten by a loss of company.
When the lies that you spoke And the truth that you hid Bring more good than the sum Of all good that you did…