Your love is dyed,

Just like your hair,

But here and there a root appears.

Traces of reality start to show.

Beneath your laugh,

One genuine tear,

And trickling from your sadness,

A beautiful hint of rascality.

Your love belies the hate you hold so dear,

And in your hate, a secret, gleeful love.

But shave your head like a monk 

And walk away from your so-called life.

Don the wide-striped orange prison gear

And walk through town.

Return to your true nature,

And acknowledge these things,

As deeply embedded in yourself.

Then wilt thou be perfect,

Even as a god,

And then wilt thou bring forth

Thine own heart’s smile

Of sweet rascality.

-jenn