the world will never reflect the truth about you;
not even its delicious praise will closer reach,
the flattering confections they refuse to give you,
until you’ve digested the derision that they teach;
for there are two kinds of comedy: one of salty wit
and one of vicious jealousy, the mother of resentment
who’ll feed you till your body’s too heavy, too dense
for feeling love or knowing joy in every circumstance.
for the devil only deals with those who love to need,
and those who need anything make love only with devil
such cheap and easy rewards you will willingly accept
as long as your surrender seems a step above the rest
still, you were born not of this world, but into it
as low shadows are born and grow in surface sunshine
they ebb and they flow in temporal aspect and petty slight
till dissolved when clouds gives rest to mighty sunlight.