We can, with envy at another look,
As frogs at swans must take a greenish glance.
Our lives, to us, are but an open book,
While theirs seem polished as a ballroom dance.
We see our mirrored marks each morn we wake
While sleep’s ill-fitting shroud still clings like dew.
Through slits, we see the hair before we rake.
And bare? The flaws that none must see, we rue.
Our words, our acts are all on written page
As well as thoughts none else can ever read.
We know the tiger pacing in the cage.
Man’s blind. Oh, God! God sees them! Ev’ry weed!
With cause, all men at heart are insecure.
The reason is that none of us is pure.
photo by Craig Phillip at
© Dennis Allen Lange and thebardonthehill.wordpress.com, 2016.