Verity Poem by Mark Heathcote

If one innocent child of good verity
were to pull at the threads of reality,
if the truth were a sprig of blossom,
It would wilt as soon as plucked.
As soon as torn from the bough
its powers and influence would wane,
the reflection of its mirrored image
would inflict the greatest pain, its knife-

be blunted instantly and turned outward
when the vision of itself is transmuted
into lesser metals, it would stab,
stab poison at its nearest and dearest.
Till all its lifeless blossom, inert chaos
holds no more toxic allure for evil spirits
Appeal or attraction for even him lord Satan.